


a dozen ways to fall in love

by bastardmanvibes



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Angst and fluff and humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Closeted Mac McDonald, Crack Treated Seriously, Denial, Dennis Reynolds is a Bastard Man, Dick Jokes, Dorks in Love, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Fuckery, Homophobia, Humor, Internalized Homophobia, Love/Hate, M/M, Meta, Pining, Project Badass, Scheming, Slow Burn, Tenderness, Tropes, Unreliable Narrator, Will add tags as I go, everything but the kitchen sink babey, lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22246180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardmanvibes/pseuds/bastardmanvibes
Summary: For an unclear reason, Charlie starts writing MacDennis smut.Fuckery ensues.
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 43
Kudos: 77





	1. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac is in love oh my fucking god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello babes. i've been chipping away at this for a damn while now so it's about time i just publish it, no fanfare, no fuss. i have a vision, okay? i usually pile everything into one fic so i've decided to embrace that and create a uhhhhhhh hot mess of a fic that somehow works? not sure. tired of working on it. lmk. but also i'm baby so go easy on me. don't take it seriously and you oughta have lots of fun!  
> CW: bad comedy, cursing, sexual references (some more uhhh explicit than others), homophobia, the bastard man, and i did throw in the t-slur when mac goes on one of his homophobic rants. he is a big dumb bigot, just so we're clear. if you wanna avoid it, skip the paragraph that starts with "it’s true—thinking things through..."

More than half of the stars you see in the night sky are actually two stars. Without a telescope, you wouldn’t know it, but pairs and clusters of stars are more common than lonesome ones. In some solar systems, two stars orbit around each other from such a long distance away that astronomers have a hard time even identifying them as a pair. Other ones orbit each other so closely that they’re spinning at an indescribable speed, constantly swapping mass back and forth. Although, things tend to get complicated in this type of intense, intimate system after a while. Since being created together, they have existed in perfect equilibrium until, like the textbooks say, some external force disturbs them. They could drift apart, their gravitational contact lost, each of them going off to become single stars, or one could be shot into empty space by the other like a rock on a sling. In extreme cases, they could explode into a blinding supernova, perishing in the process. But as long as nothing changes, they’ll be fine, dancing together in the emptiness of the galaxy, without ever touching. 

Some scientists say that all binary stars are destined to merge eventually, spinning faster and faster, closer and closer, until they finally collide. Though, we’ve yet to observe that happen. 

  
  
  


Mac burst through the door of Dee’s apartment, shouting wildly about the small wooden crate that he’d hauled all the way up there. “Dennis! Dennis, it came! What’d I tell you?! Those dark web guys so _are_ trustworthy!” 

He slammed the box down in the kitchen and, since he got no response, swiveled his head to look around. In his excitement, he’d actually forgotten that Dennis was still asleep—that gorgeous, lazy fuck. Mac just couldn’t wait to see if his package had arrived this morning, and it _did._ The five extra bucks he’d kicked up for express shipping had definitely paid off.

He eagerly clawed at the edges of the crate for a few seconds before he realized he’d need something other than his bare hands to open it. He lunged for a nearby drawer and shouted, “It’s already ten, dude! And I am _not_ waiting on you to open this!” Rummaging through the silverware with excess force, he hoped the loud clanging would encourage Dennis to get out of bed faster. He grabbed a butter knife and shoved it under the lid of the box. 

A minute of struggling, shoving, pulling, and banging his fist full force like a wild ape later, Mac’s roommate emerged from the bedroom, still in a t-shirt and boxers. A hand sliding down his face, Dennis mumbled, clearly irritated, “God, what is _with_ that insufferable noise?” Like most mornings, he drifted straight to the coffee maker, tucked into the corner of Dee’s cramped kitchen. Mac’s eyes couldn’t help but trail him as he passed, fixating on his hair that was still messy from sleep—some of it clinging to his forehead, some of it sticking out in places it shouldn’t. 

Mac’s mouth split into a wide grin, his clever plan having worked magnificently. “The rocket came,” he said eagerly, but Dennis was still busy scooping coffee grounds. 

“Mm?” he grunted.

“The—the rocket, that I got.”

Dennis turned to him, looking utterly bored. “A rocket,” he repeated flatly. 

“Yeah, man, off the internet, remember?” he explained, grabbing the knife again. 

Leaning against the counter, Dennis folded his arms and laughed lightly. “I didn’t think you were actually serious about that.”

Mac rolled his eyes. Sometimes, it really unsalted his snail how absolutely cynical his roommate was determined to be all of the goddamn time. He sassed, “I was serious, dude. How _else_ do you expect me to reach the optimal velocity needed to clear a shark pit, Dennis?”

“Well first of all,” he started, his demeanor that of a preschool teacher, “there’s no such thing as a ‘shark pit,’ okay—you can have a snake pit, now—now that’d make sense, but you'd need a tank or, or a container of sorts, if you will, for a shark, you realize that?” 

Now completely wedged underneath the lid, the knife didn’t want to budge. “I feel like you’re hung up on terminology,” Mac said, adding snarkily, “And I’m pretty sure you can fill a pit with water.”

“Y’know what, I will give you that,” Dennis replied, an index finger wagging lazily. “But I’m also a bit hung up on the fact that you seem to think that the stunts you see on TV are, in any way, achievable.”

Mac took a moment’s break from tugging on the knife to shoot him a smirk. “You only say that ‘cause you wish you thought of it first.”

With pain in his eyes, Dennis hesitated a bit before telling him, “Happy Days thought of it first, Mac.” 

“Whatever, it’s gonna be way more badass than anything you’ve seen before, alls I’m sayin’.” Here it was—another fantastic opportunity to impress Dennis with his death-defying skills. He started to enthusiastically explain it for about the hundredth time. “Picture it. Me, flying down a thirty foot ramp, flames shooting out of my rollerblades, before I _fly_ through the air.” Getting amped up just talking about it, he violently yanked the knife until it finally popped free. His second plan of action was to start haphazardly banging it against the box, shouting with every swing, “If only this! Stupid! Box! Would just open!”

Dennis asked idly while pouring his coffee, “Oh, did you try yelling at it?”

Mac emitted a sharp sigh, because it wasn’t his fault. “I don’t see why they can’t just use cardboard like they do for everything else.”

“It’s too early for this.” He took a sip from his mug. “You need a hammer for the nails.”

“Nails!” he gasped. “Of _course!”_

He sprinted to Dee’s wardrobe in the living room—the one filled with all her random crap jumbled together. Having to rake through it like a snow plow, Mac considered organizing it for her for a hot second. But then he remembered that that gangly bitch has never once done anything for _him_ , so doing her that solid would be a textbook soy boy beta cuck mistake.

Dennis called after him, “You _are_ aware this is impossible? That it’s basically guaranteed you’ll get _horrendously_ maimed if you try this, right?”

Mac smirked as his hand closed around the hammer. It was so cute how obviously and helplessly terrified Dennis was. But of _course,_ he couldn’t possibly bear the thought of his one true love, his rock, his _everything,_ getting hurt in any possible way. It was almost pathetic how it manifested in his voice, the uncontrollable trembling indicating his overwhelming, uncontrollable fear. For his sake, Mac reassured him, “Actually, me and Charlie worked out all the kinks already!” He returned to the kitchen with a bright smile. “We covered every base. And just so you know, we _did_ actually find a tank, so you don’t gotta worry about that either.”

It also must’ve been too early for Dennis to return his excitement. “Right. For the sharks that you plan to get.” He watched apathetically, and specified after another sip, “In Philadelphia.”

“Frank’s got a guy.” One of four nails came loose and clanged onto the table. 

“Oh, _Frank’s_ involved, now? What could he possibly want to do with your shitty YouTube scheme?” 

At times, it was like they weren’t even friends. “Okay, Project Badass is not a YouTube scheme.” The second nail was being difficult, so Mac resorted to banging on the crate again, this time with the claw of the hammer. He spoke loudly over the noise, “Well, I guess you could call it that, but at its core, it’s a documentation of my mind blowing stunts, make no mistake.”

Dennis set his mug down and gestured for him to hand over the hammer. 

Mac hesitated. He wanted to be the one to open it. But after a glance down at the splintery mess on the table, he knew this wasn’t a battle worth fighting, so he begrudgingly gave it over. 

He opened a nearby cabinet.

“I like your stunts, Mac, I do,” Dennis said calmly.

As he tore open a box of pop-tarts, a warm sense of pride swelled inside him, surfacing on his face in the form of a reflexive grin.

The second nail plinked onto the table. “But there’s nothing badass about horrifically wiping out.”

He clung on to the smile for another half-second before it automatically collapsed.

Dennis was just being extra fragile this morning, so he just had to extra reassure him. “It’s perfectly safe, dude. I told you, I thought of everything, okay?” He pushed the toaster’s lever and turned back around to be met with a raised eyebrow directed at him. Mac sighed. An eyebrow raise, especially when paired with that disapproving stare, was always a cue for him to fix whatever stupid thing he’d just said. But Dennis simply didn’t understand this time. He’d been in one of his more distant stints lately, reacting lukewarm at best to pretty much everything Mac tried to boast about—talks of ramps and jumps and rollerblades had fallen on deaf, uninterested ears. He didn’t much mind explaining it all again, though. “A lot of it is gonna be after-effects, and I’ve been collecting a bunch of old mattresses to land on, I have _ten_ now, Dennis, so I’m pretty sure—”

_”I’m_ pretty sure you were dropped on your head as a kid,” he spat. 

The third nail bounced off the table and onto the floor. 

Mac looked at it, laying there on the tile, and noticed how badly Dee needed to sweep. He murmured, “Well, I wasn’t. So.” 

Dennis was the kind of guy who needed to see to believe, that’s all. 

“So it’s gotta be _somethin’_ else,” he angrily muttered, basically to himself. The final nail came free, and he immediately tore the lid off. 

A smile crept onto his face. “Shit,” he laughed. “Now _that’s_ awesome.”

Mac clamored to his side, practically shoving him out of the way to get a look. 

She was a breathtakingly beautiful sight, all gray and metallic and badass and shit. Mac gingerly wrapped his hands around it, lifting it gently from its bed of hay. The weight felt good in his hands. It almost appeared to glisten under the bright kitchen light. His eyes glided slowly along its curve until they landed on Dennis, who stared at the rocket with the same trancelike admiration that Mac sometimes got when he watched him. 

Mac loves Dennis in fleeting moments, candid ones like this definitely being his favorite. The exchange they’d just had was insignificant compared to the grand scheme of things, after all. Their love is abundant, and it seeps out like _all_ the time. For instance, when he lies to strangers, Mac is right beside him, admiring him, backing him up, intimidating them for him. They definitely play off each other’s strengths, but the best part has gotta be getting to watch his charisma at work, cause the way he can fool and sway people with an ease he’d never fully comprehend was absolutely enthralling.

Mac loves Dennis when he’s angry and he loves him when he’s visibly flustered from overwhelming frustration. He loves him when he’s raw and he loves the passion they share for demolishing anything that stands in their way. If you’re an irrelevant jabroni, a hornets’ nest, or even just a beer bottle that dare be empty in their presence, you best fear the dynamic duo. They’re strong, dude.

There’s plenty of opportunity to find and dish out love in moments of weakness though—Mac knows that well. He has his best dreams on days he gets to be a solution rather than an obstacle. See, Dennis often takes things too far, right? He hurts himself in a rage (it gets gnarly dude), and Mac is the one who understands best that it’s birthed not from whatever aggressor is currently right in front of him, he’s just a little (completely) fucked up is all, so he’s the one who gets to coax him down. It’s easy—usually a sincere compliment is enough to quell it. If you didn’t know already, Dennis is a teensy bit vain. 

Although, these moments alone were what Mac cherished most. There were lots of different versions of Dennis, some noticeably and objectively hotter than others, some docile (however those were rare), some impossible to talk to. Sometimes it helped if there wasn't an audience. It’s pretty ironic, but he’s a way better actor than his sister. But not like, in a good way, more in a pathetic, I-don’t-know-who-I-am kind of way. Mac never brought it up because hey, he wouldn’t want anyone bringing his deep shit up to the surface either. In this sense, the gang was a good home for everyone— unspoken was how they all liked their bullshit. 

But he was alone with Dennis now, and had better odds at guessing what he was feeling. This morning, it was awe, for sure. Mac had done a great job picking out the perfect rocket, but he wasn’t focusing on that. Instead, it was on the slight stubble that peppered Dennis’ jaw, and the dark circles that were usually buried under concealer, and the toothy smile that had woken up early that day, and the tired, hooded blue eyes that snapped to him without notice.

Mac jumped a little when the toaster went off. “Good weight to it,” he blurted, practically shoving the rocket into Dennis’ chest before retrieving his breakfast.

He commented while inspecting it closely, turning it over and bouncing it in his grip, “Isn’t it a little big, though? Help me out with the logistics here, ‘cause _I_ assumed you’d get two small ones, you know, one for each foot. How does Wile E. Coyote do it, again?”

Mac had to improvise. He plopped down at the table, huffed, “I’ll attach it to my helmet I guess,” and took a large bite of his pop-tart, which was way too hot, so he spoke with a hand hovering over his gaping mouth. “It’s really the power of it that’s important. And the flames.” 

After lowering the rocket back into its crate, Dennis said cautiously, “You said you had this all worked out.”

“Don’t doubt me, bro. This is gonna be my biggest stunt yet—I put some thought into it, trust me, okay. The ramp should be coming in next week.”

“The thirty foot tall one? That you intend to fly down with a rocket stuck to your head?”

“Yeah—”

“Well how ‘bout you _don’t_ do that?”

Mac’s arm fell limply onto the table with a loud thud. “I’m _gonna_ do it, Dennis,” he said, his eyes shooting to the ceiling.

He took another casual sip. “Let’s change it to a ten foot ramp, how’s that sound?”

He spat a chuckle. “You can’t get enough momentum to clear a shark pit with a _ten foot_ ramp.”

Like the solution was obvious, he said, “Nix the shark pit, then.”

“That’s like, the whole point, _dumbass.”_

“Jesus,” Dennis griped, “at the _very_ least, invest in some shin guards.”

Appalled that he would even suggest that, Mac hollered, his fists clenched on the table, “Shin guards are for pussies, Dennis! Pussies!”

He took a deep breath through his nose, and let out an even longer sigh. “Fine, honestly,” he held up his palms. “I can’t be bothered.” His fingers folding forward, his hands stayed suspended as he considered Mac for another moment. He took a long blink, opened his hands again briefly, shook his head, put down his mug, and walked off, presumably to the bathroom for his lengthy morning rituals. Once he was a room away, he shouted, “But you don’t get to come crying to me when your legs are fucking broken!”

Mac simply muttered into his food, and definitely didn’t picture his limp body smashing into the concrete and exploding like some sort of gross, bloody water balloon. He also didn’t imagine the distinct sound of his own bones cracking, or the anguished cries of his friends, drowned out by the ambulance’s deafening wail. 

No, he just ate his pop tarts. 

  
  
  


“So I guess you’ll need to stock up with more duct tape,” Dee said, standing behind the bar, chucking peanuts into her mouth. “You guys ever notice we’re like constantly running out? I mean, we gotta be the only bar in town that uses such an _insane_ amount.”

Mac spoke up, “What on _Earth_ would I need duct tape for, Dee?”

“To stick the rocket to your head,” Dennis answered for her. He sat at the end of the bar, right next to him, passively flipping through the morning paper.

“Shit, right,” Mac drummed his fingers. “Well, duct tape _is_ the world’s best adhesive. You guys sure we’re completely out? You ask Charlie?”

A near-silent chuckle came from Dennis’ direction. “Dude, you’re gonna die.”

“On video, too,” Dee leered at him, her bony arms crossed tightly across her chest. “Ooh, Dennis, let’s play it at the funeral. That way, it won’t be our job to explain to everyone why he’s in a closed casket.”

“You know what,” Mac narrowed his eyes at her. “Those girls look ready for you to take their order,” he said firmly, jamming his thumb towards a booth of young women, “Waitress.”

After popping a handful of peanuts into her mouth, she walked off saying, “Can’t boss me around when you’re dead.”

Mac mocked her whiny squawking, muttering with his voice shot up an octave. He turned to Dennis. “If I _was_ dead, I swear to God I’d smite her _so_ fast with my angelic powers n’ shit.”

“Oh, you get _powers_ when you die?” Dennis asked, his eyes shortly surfacing from the newspaper. “Like, lightning powers? Or is it more nuanced, as in, more plagues and war, y’know, just general suffering type stuff?”

“Don’t ask me, dude, I don’t have all the details.” He threw back his half-empty beer bottle, almost downing the rest of it in one go. “Only He, in his infinite wisdom—”

Dee came in hot all of a sudden. “Who orders _frozen margaritas?!_ She crouched behind the bar and popped back up with a blender, which she proceeded to loudly slam down on the prep station. “In _this_ bar?! Before _noon?!”_

Mac perked up. “Ooh, that sounds refreshing! Make me one.”

“I’ll take one too.” Dennis flipped a page. “And make it strawberry.”

“Ooh, yes! Now we’re talkin’! Do we have any fresh fruit around here?”

“No!” Dee shrieked.

“Frozen’s good, then,” said Mac.

“I am _not_ making you two a couple of fruity margaritas!” Mac would’ve been disappointed by this, if the way her voice got all fast and screechy at the end of her sentence wasn’t so hilarious. She slammed the lid down on the blender and cranked it up until it drowned out the sound of Mac and Dennis’ loud protesting.

They just watched as she begrudgingly whipped up the three drinks and served them to the boothfull of oddly young, oddly chipper, and oddly creepy group of girls. Creepy, because of the way that they stared at Mac and the way that they didn’t _stop_ staring once he caught them. He glanced at Dennis to reaffirm he wasn’t just seeing things, but his eyes were still glued to that boring newspaper. Mac did a double take, and yep, still staring. He gave a sheepish wave. They broke into giggles. 

Dee returned. “So you _are_ friends with those nerds,” she said, as if she’d cracked some sort of code.

“No—”

“No wonder they keep showing up here. Do me a favor,” she snapped, “and stop making friends with weird, underage girls, okay?” 

Dennis scolded him monotonously, _”Mac,_ have you been checking IDs?”

“They’re not— _yes,”_ he huffed. “Who says they’re underage? And I am _not_ friends with them, they just keep _looking_ at me.”

Dennis spat a callous laugh, “Clearly, they’re looking at _me._ C’mon.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Dee teased.

Before Dennis could retort back with some quip about the age of consent, the front door squeaked open. Loud bickering immediately followed, “For the _last_ time! Olives are not romantic, Frank!” Charlie whined. For some reason, by his side, he held onto a thick stack of papers that were stuffed into a manilla folder.

Frank argued, “Whaddya talkin’ about?! Eh-not only can you feed ‘em to each other, you can stick ‘em in all sorts of places thatcha wouldn’t believe!”

When the rest of the gang were about to ask some well-deserved questions, inexplicably, the three strange girls got up from their booth to swarm Charlie and Frank, clamoring on about updates and chapters. 

Dee, Mac, and Dennis swapped looks of helpless bewilderment.

In his deep, guttural voice, Frank ordered them to scram as Charlie screamed, “Yah! Yah!” He shooed them off as if they were cattle, his arms and legs flailing wildly as he corralled them out the door. “Amscray! Get! D’ya hear me?! Go on! Outta here!”

And so, at 11:30am on a Wednesday, three half empty margaritas and five people remained inside Paddy’s Pub.

Dennis was the first to speak. “Yeah, quick question—”

“What the _fuck?!”_ exclaimed Mac.

“That was _bizarre,”_ Dee agreed, her eyes going wide.

Charlie slammed the heavy stack onto the bar and sat beside Mac. He deflected, “Bizarre? You wanna know what’s _bizarre,_ Dee? Your _face_ is bizarre. Like, are you a bird, or are you a girl? Or some sort of bird-girl hybrid?! I don’t even _know_ man! And it’s _freakin’_ me out!”

“Jesus,” she grumbled, her eyes still wide. “Calm down.”

“Who are those women, Charlie?” Dennis demanded, still looking completely perplexed. 

He ignored him. “Beer me, bird-girl.”

“Charlie,” Mac persisted, reaching for the suspicious-looking folder.

Staring straight ahead, Charlie smacked his hand away. Mac noticed his leg was bouncing rapidly. “There’s no beer in front of me,” he started calmly, before some sort of internal, hysterical switch was flipped. _”Why_ is there no _beer_ in front of me _right now?!”_

Mac allowed a few-second grace period to pass, so that this time, he could take advantage of the element of surprise, thus safely securing the mysterious folder with one swift, agile snatch. 

Living with so many cats must have enhanced Charlie’s reflexes somehow. Mac rubbed his wrist. 

“Charlie,” said Frank, the r sound having been left behind like usual, “Might as well tell ‘em.”

Evidently exasperated, he yelled back, “Tell them _what,_ Frank?!”

Dennis couldn’t seem to comprehend what the hell was happening. “The _folder,_ Charlie! Chrissakes, the last time you had a huge stack of paper like that, it ended in you descending from the ceiling in an appalling yellow tuxedo, singing the worst arpeggio I’ve ever heard.”

Charlie sipped on the beer that he’d finally got and said simply, “Nahhh, it was pretty good.”

Mac stole a glance at Dennis. He bulged his eyes and shrugged to let him know that he didn’t have a clue either. Sometimes Dennis could depend on him to translate Charlie’s nonsensical bullshit, but it appeared that this time, they were facing it together. 

“Alright, uh,” Frank bounced on his toes, his hands held loosely in the air and his eyes clamped shut. “So the plan is—it’s to eh—so those girls, right? The broads with the glasses a-and all the fruity drinks all the time, y’know, those girls?”

Dennis was impatient. “Get to the point, Frank.” He never did like being confused.

He looked like he must have been using every ounce of brain power he had in order to force the information out. “Well uh, they come in because they like _you two.”_ He used both hands to point at Dennis and Mac.

This wouldn’t be the first time they had to compete over the same girl, or, in this instance, girls. Mac had to switch gears, because rather recently, his pretending to like women had fallen out of style for the gang. Also, it was like, super fucking annoying. When compulsory heterosexual duty calls, however, he had to enter the battlefield. Truthfully, he did wish the girls weren’t so goddamn ugly this time around, and admittedly, it was difficult for him to find a woman that wasn’t these days. Still, it was part of God’s plan for him to be a panty-dropping stud. You can’t pick out your sexuality, unfortunately, and even more unfortunately, no child of Jesus is ever born queer. So.

Under his breath, Charlie exclaimed, “Frank!” 

This must have caught Dennis’ intrigue, because he was now fully facing him with a smug grin. “Now c’mon, that’s just _obvious,_ Frank.” He let out a loud, choppy laugh. “I feel bad for them, really. They must be too afraid of my, _inevitable_ rejection, to make a move.”

_”Or,”_ Mac contested, “they’re too _scared,_ by my brutish strength, of course, to make a move.” 

Dennis rolled his eyes, “Well see, you guys, that _must_ be it.” 

“No, no-no-no,” Frank sputtered. “They like you two, _together.”_

It was like Mac’s ribs were freshly forged from steel, burning-hot and tightly squeezing around the contents of his torso. The surface was the absolute last place he expected his and Dennis’ passionate, yet quiet, clearly mutual, decades-long and torturous pining to end up, moreover, catalysed by some bizarre subculture and one of Frank and Charlie’s half-baked money-making schemes. Sealed away behind the subconscious, sure. Seeping out in small moments—an innocuously draped arm or leg on Tuesday night movie night, a “friendly” clasp of the shoulder, an apple peeled with care, a look that lingered a little too long—maybe. 

But _never_ the surface.

Mac’s mind was frantic, the only thing currently making sense to it being poetic metaphors that came like bullets. Their love was the sun. It’s super hot. It’s the center of everything in the entire universe or whatever! Yeah, so maybe it’s cool to look at pictures of it—something that gives you a vague idea of just how colossal it is. But you would _never,_ under _any_ circumstances, look directly at it! Well, sometimes you do, but that’s just ‘cause you’re bored and you’re stupid and you wanna see how long you can stand it, but _obviously,_ actually setting foot on it is entirely out of the question.

In the effort of looking normal, Mac threw back the rest of his beer, but he ended up slamming it back down with a painfully loud clack. All eyes were on him now. He forcibly turned a hitched exhale into a nervous laugh as he lurched forward to quickly steady the empty bottle.

He shifted on his stool. “W-wow—really?” he blurted, smiling widely and forcing a furrowed brow. “‘Cause that is _fascinating. Yeah.”_

The twins blinked at him, both looking halfway between confused and concerned. 

Dennis said, “This isn’t making any sense, Frank.” It seemed like, thankfully, he elected to move past Mac’s unbearable awkwardness in favor of investigating. “They talked about an update—update for what, exactly?”

Frank’s voice fought against Charlie’s shrill hollering. “We’ve been writin’ smut about you two,” he announced bluntly. “They pay top dollar just to picture you two bangin’.” He ended with a laugh.

Everything went slow, like in the movies, but this time, Mac didn’t move a muscle when his dumbass heart decided to thrash around his chest like it was a hotel room paid for in cash. He centered his breath, his eyes glued to the bar’s dark finish, as four loud, excruciatingly familiar voices exploded all around, encompassing him and any coherent thought he might have had. They shouted outraged objections, hollered dismissive comments, and hurled poorly-crafted insults, all meshed together into a panic-inducing mess. He couldn’t hear himself fucking think, let alone process the fact that the subjects of him, Dennis, and Sex with a capital S were without warning so brazenly chucked onto the table. 

The urge to bolt was quite strong. But that would be far too suspicious. Instead, Mac forced another furrowed brow to counteract how hot his cheeks were feeling.

One voice, the one that mattered, surfaced above the rest with a pressing question, “Woah, woah, guys— _wait._ Frank. What do you mean top dollar?”

This is a prank. It has to be. 

But the way Frank started to explain, or rather, ramble on about a plan, was insufferably convincing. “Well, I ain’t gotta tell _you two_ that homoerotic subtext is all the rage these days, do I?”

Nope—definitely a dream, from which Mac prayed he would wake up. 

Asserting himself, some sort of scorching sentiment shot out of him suddenly. “That’s a _sin,_ dude!” He risked looking to Dennis for help, his mouth now unchained and running wild. _”What_ is he talking about?! _What_ are they talking about?!” 

“And you two are the perfect candidates for uh, for the um—‘cause you, eh.” Frank clamped his eyes shut again, trying to conjure up the end of his sentence, as Dee filled the empty space with taunting laughter. “‘Cause you live together, and-and,” he snapped his fingers, “Mac’s gay!”

At this point, exclaiming, “I’m not gay!” was a simple reflex, free from any stomach-swirls or twinges of terror. 

And, like usual, the declaration was followed by everyone deflating into sighs. Mac chewed his bottom lip, awaiting the verdict. It was bound to land in his favor, as it always did, but still, that clumsy, knee-jerk reaction was far from his most convincing.

Dennis decided to back him up this time. “Of course you aren’t, bud.” One by one, he pointedly shared a look with everyone except Mac. “But neither am I. Which is why, while completely ignoring the facts that Charlie can’t write and that people don’t read smut about real people, this is making absolutely _zero_ sense.”

Charlie’s beer clacked loudly against the bar.

Dee asked, “Do you guys need coasters, or—”

His voice cut the air like sharp glass. “See Frank, _right there,_ he has absolutely _no_ clue what he’s talking about.” He seethed, genuinely offended, “And it is _not_ just smut. It’s _art.”_

“But just to be clear,” said Dennis, “it _is_ smut.”

He almost looked shocked. “Well, of course it’s smut, Dennis,” he said quietly, then went back to shouting. “How can you make art with _no_ smut?! It was always about the _smut_ okay?!” 

Mac was going to freak out if they don’t stop saying that word. He snatched up his beer, forgetting it was empty. “Beer me, bird-girl,” he ordered, his voice cracking under pressure.

Dennis matched Charlie’s heat. “Why on God’s green Earth are we involved in your erotic art project, Charlie?!”

Within half a second, his shoulders shot up and back down. “You’re the stars,” he gritted angrily, like it ought to be obvious. 

Frank said, “‘Cause Mac’s gay.”

“I’m—” 

Charlie screeched, “I’m not gay! We got it! He’s not gay, you guys! Stop calling him gay, ‘cause we all know what’s gonna happen—he’s not gay! So _stop_ calling him gay!”

A rare bout of silence lasted roughly three seconds, before Mac uttered a sheepish, “Thanks, Charlie.” 

“God, see, this is why,” he took a deep breath, “I didn’t want you guys involved. It’s simply a conflict of interest, and Frank and I are _just fine,_ thank you, managing our business on our _own,_ alright?”

_”Business?”_ Dee blurted, bursting with amusement.

“Five bucks per chapter, baby,” Charlie said nonchalantly and threw back his beer, his eyes unfixed and tired.

“There are _chapters,_ now?!” Mac couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shouted some sense into everyone, “You can’t _write,_ Charlie!”

Frank raised an index finger. “That’s what he’s got me for. I’m helpin’ him.”

_”Why?!”_ Mac screamed.

He didn’t even seem to know the true answer himself. “I dunno, it’s a scheme! And Charlie really does have a way with words you guys, I’m tellin’ ya.”

“It just flows out of me, man,” he affirmed, getting a little excited. “I _dunno_ —I think we might have something really magical here, guys.”

“Gay sex is not magical!” Mac shouted, before he realized something. “Well, I guess magic _is_ a sin.”

Dryly, Dennis said, “But what isn’t these days?”

“And so’s gay sex… So maybe there _is_ some sort of gay witchcraft at play here. Maybe that could explain Charlie’s sudden _need,”_ he remembered how furious he was, “to write smutty stories about his friends!”

“Gay witchcraft,” Dee echoed. “Killer name for a lesbian band.”

Unfortunately, hardly anything piques Dennis’ interest more than a lucrative scheme, and it certainly didn’t help that Charlie had already granted him star status. “Well now, Mac, actually… I think this is something I could get behind,” he said, leaning in.

“And that’s not the only thing,” jeered Dee, as happy as a baby Mac unwrapping a stolen cabbage patch doll on Christmas morning.

With the final, devastating nail hammered into the coffin, Mac was now, officially, trapped. “Bro, you _cannot_ be serious. He’s describing us having—” the back of his throat lurched forward at the mere thought of it, but he decided to plow through the rest of his sentence anyway, “us having—” he clasped his hand over his mouth, unsure whether or not his pop-tarts were about to come back up suddenly. 

Dennis said, “Yeah, I moved past that about ten paragraphs ago, dude.”

Mac gave him a look as if to say, “Way to abandon your bro, dude.”

Now that it was painfully clear he was on his own, Mac officially decided to stop paying attention to the gang’s bantering and bickering in order to search for an exit strategy. However, he knew that leaving right now, during the development stages of a plan, would be absolutely detrimental, so he instead intended to throw a wrench at any weak spot he identified—the first being that Charlie made the foolish, foolish mistake of writing things down on paper, like a _fool._ Mac wouldn’t have been able to eat a flash drive nearly as effortlessly. He stared at him like a hawk while everyone else quibbled on about specifics, and as soon as his head was turned, made a move for the stack. This time, however, it was snatched away by Dee the moment before his fingers snagged it. With plan A foiled, he threw a palm onto the bar, making a loud smack. 

“Lemme see it, Dee!”

“Oh, you wanna know what it says?” she taunted, dodging Mac and Charlie’s clawing hands. She leaned against the prep station and pulled a random leaf of paper from the unorganized stack. She glanced at it, then at the gang. “Oho, this should be good,” she sneered.

Charlie seemed nervous about them reading his work, "Okay but before you start, just remember, I—that you guys are not the target audience, okay?" 

“Is it a sex scene?” asked Dennis.

“I’m on top, right?” Mac asked desperately. 

Dennis threw him a judgemental look, his face screwed in bewilderment.

“Ahem,” Dee cleared her throat, then forced her voice to be what you could maybe call breathily sexy, if you were either hard of hearing or into out-of-breath and dying goats, that is. "A smoldering instinct forced their gazes together. Scandalous, sexy sex wafted through the cold, dark, depressing air, much unlike the throbbing desire that raged in their eyes and junk. It was only a matter of time before their fires and their dicks would become one." 

Frank interrupted her to say what everyone else was thinking. “What the hell are you doin’, Deandra?”

She snapped, “I’m reading an excerpt where it looks like, to me, _Frank,_ that Dennis is chugging Mac’s dick.”

Mac suddenly released a strong breath that he didn’t realize he was holding in. And it wasn’t a quiet one either.

His pupils fluttered up to Dennis’ face—still judgy—before snapping back to the bar. 

He swallowed, praying for someone to speak up before he had to answer for the truly pathetic outburst. Thankfully, Dennis filled the silence, "Don't ruin it with the voice, Dee."

"What's there to ruin?!" 

It was clear that Dennis would rather it be left unsaid. He lazily rolled his eyes, "It's astounding, but take it from me, a respected erotic memoirist, Charlie." He got his attention, "You got the gift."

Charlie blushed. "C'mon," he chuckled sheepishly, "You don't know that, that was just a few lines..."

Mac didn't have any friends, he decided. 

“Fine then,” Dee spat in exasperation, "Let's skip to the good part." She continued her dramatic reading in a short, choppy tone. "“The prize was within his grasp, tantalizingly attainable. Dennis had seen his juicy cock a few times, but never up close. Excitement is like a pet bird, as they say, you can never have just one. His hands, faster than his brain, rushed to unleash it, and...”

Mac didn’t know what to do with his hands, or any part of his body, really, as she droned on, damaging what was left of the barrier between himself and debauchery a little bit with each sentence. He settled on anchoring his jittery legs between his stool and the bar and picking at the soggy Coors label. He wanted to tune out the words so badly, but lord, was Frank correct about Charlie having a way with words. Absurdity was shrouded by how wrought with fear he was. Also a little bit by how hard his dick was. It didn’t matter—this was happening either way. His eyes had been plastered to the bar until they started to frantically scan the room for an escape route. They clicked with the crumpled yellow paper in Dee’s ugly, mannish paws. Too far away. Even if he did succeed in cramming it in his mouth, it was one of what looked like to be dozens and dozens of raunchy, sinful pages, and Mac’s digestive system can only handle so much. If he were to be truly honest with himself, the vile evil contained in the words would probably be able to dissolve him from the inside out, or something like that.

"He tried his best to sip the sight of his manhood carefully, like an old whisky, but oceans of horniness surged down his throat and scorched it like lava. He and Mac both knew what had to take it's place. Ragged breath gyrated through the dead air of their apartment. He needed to choke down something that was hot and gushing, and it wasn't a volcano—okay what the hell is this, Charlie?!"

"Just keep going," said Dennis, his forearms propped on the bar and his ear towards the paper. 

That motherfucker was constructing a visual. Mac whipped his head to the bathroom next. It’s not much of an escape, but having to take a shit would be a far better excuse to leave than just being uncomfortable. Next, his eyes darted to the basement entrance, but instead landed squarely on another pair, staring straight through him. They grabbed him and didn’t let go, even as Dee droned on in detail about cum and stuff. Dennis was malevolently unphased, his perfectly sculpted face perched on his palm, a faint, leering grin wreaking havoc on Mac’s already soupy insides. He was undressing him with his eyes. Mac couldn’t wipe the terror from his face, and he couldn’t take how calm Dennis was acting—it taunted him. His heart pounded, so he ripped his gaze away, only to be yanked right back. 

Dennis had the audacity to pull half of his mouth into a smirk. It was absolutely devastating—it was like Mac’s guts had been ravaged and ransacked. It was cataclysmic. And when his lips parted ever so much, the tip of his tongue starting to peek through, Mac straight up died, dude. He just fucking passed away, man, I don’t know what to tell you.

Well, he might as well have. Somehow, he wound up in both heaven _and_ hell.

He kept his eyes on the bar for as long he could bear it, but that just made the words stand out more.

"Dennis slowly swept his tongue down the length of the shaft. He tasted delicious, like the creamiest cheese sauce in the supermarket. Maybe that's why they call him Mac." 

Oh, wait, no—this was _definitely_ just hell.

The source of the problem was also the only place he could look to for help. His eyes didn’t have much choice but to retreat back to it. 

Dennis sure was amused by the whole thing—perhaps especially by Mac freaking the fuck out—and he couldn’t tell whether he was outright tormenting him or attempting to joke with him when he grinned, baring his teeth with his tongue resting between them.

Mac peered helplessly into his eyes, the back of his neck sweating profusely. 

A small yet deafening part of his brain sternly told him that Dennis was obviously trying to communicate with him. He was into it—just as he was. Now was their chance—he was signifying that. It was so clear now, it had been laid out for them—Mac plus Dennis plus sex _was_ a viable equation. A life together— _really_ together—it was as inevitable as the sun expanding in five billion years and killing everything.

“Like a stampede of horses, their dicks exploded like a fireworks finale. Jizz rained on Dennis like confetti, which was fitting, because he felt like the belle of the ball." 

His brow furrowed. No. There’s no way. Is there?

Looking giddy, Dennis raised his eyebrows.

Like a supernova, bubbling anger exploded out of Mac’s mouth. 

_”NO!”_ he bellowed, practically falling off the stool and onto his feet. “NEVER! _NO_ WAY!” 

Dee pointed out flatly, “I _just_ read the whole thing.”

It was like someone else was pulling at his strings. One hand clenched into a fist at his side, the other jabbed a finger into his friends’ faces. “THAT IS AN AFFRONT TO GOD, CHARLIE, AND I’M NOT GONNA STAND FOR IT!”

Charlie wore an exhausted scowl, and Frank just looked confused.

He rounded on his roommate.

His face had sunk into disappointment—Mac had ruined his fun. 

Impassioned, raw aggression blew out of him in the form of a thunderous, “DENNIS, I HATE YOU!”

Everything clouded by intense fury, Mac hardly registered the short stomp from the barstool to the bathroom.

Now, let’s get one thing straight, because something has to be. Above all, Mac is manly. To be manly is to be godly, is to be physically strong, and is to be stubbornly resilient when faced with any sort of sinful urge, whether it be borrowing your friend’s ginormous serving bowl and never returning it, huffing your other friend’s last popper, or dreaming about being strapped down and violently fucked by your roommate. However, with each passing day, it seemed as if the vigilant fight against the evils of Satan was becoming increasingly hard to bear. For instance, the thought of a rugged bear with a rock-hard cock just passed through what was supposed to be Mac’s pure, righteous mind. 

Motorcycles, boobs, karate.

That should be enough to counteract it for now.

But this scheme, this revoltingly sexy, unacceptably hot, horrendous yet salacious plan that Charlie had concocted was… a hurdle. To say the _very_ fucking least. 

It wasn’t his fault, of course—he had no inclination to Mac’s epic internal struggle against the ravages of sinful thought. But still, Charlie was an asshole for it. 

Mac had to concoct something of his own if he wanted to come out of this unscathed and heterosexual. Nevertheless, even he knows that success is near unattainable for him when left to his own devices, and roping Dennis in was out of the question. He mostly wished he just didn’t exist right now, actually, it would make everything about this a hell of a lot easier. 

He had to come up with _something._

Tightly squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to think, think, think—but Dennis Reynolds was dominating his thoughts at the moment. Mac had to move out—no, take a vacation. His stunt was scheduled for next week though. He could send Dennis on vacation. He gasped. He could go on vacation _with_ Dennis. 

Shit, that’s the opposite of a solution. 

He started over. 

He could start over with Dennis! Run away with him—to the mountains—the Poconos—a place they could stargaze. He could forget the gang, forget the church. 

Mac vigorously shook his head back and forth. He can’t afford to daydream. 

He heard the door swing open, and, being wound up so tightly, had to stop himself from throwing his fist into whoever had the audacity to enter the bathroom when he was so clearly having personal crisis time. 

Frustration turned into fear the instant Dennis’ face came into view, looking slightly inquisitive but otherwise unaffected by the recent… happenings. Mac wanted to be miles away from him, because the only other option, being close to him but not close enough, made him wish he was dead. But not like, _really_ dead, because that would suck. 

He suddenly realized the best solution for the both of them—Dennis dying unexpectedly in some kind of freakish accident, preferably on the side of a highway somewhere. 

But shit, that would kind of suck too. 

Absolutely stumped and his heart fluttering out of control, Mac looked anywhere but at him. He snarled, the words feeling like they were chosen by somebody else, “Get the _hell_ away from me, bro. I—I need _space,_ okay.” He stopped abruptly to steady his breathing then spun around to stare at the graffiti on the stalls.

His heart stopped in the split second between the sound of Dennis’ pants unzipping and the sound of a steady piss stream. “Well, there’s no need to get your hopes up, Mac” he sassed, “‘cause I’m not here to suck your dick.”

“I don’t want my dick sucked!” he blurted. “I—I mean I like a good dick sucking, who doesn’t? But not by you. I wouldn’t want _you_ sucking my dick, is what I meant.” Sounding too flustered for his liking, he huffed in the most manly way possible, “Stay _away_ from my dick, Dennis!” 

He had the gall to be sarcastic. “Well, only since you asked so nicely.”

“I’m gonna kill him.” Mac’s voice shook as he directed his anger somewhere more tolerable. “I’m gonna stab him in the _throat,_ Dennis! He can’t do this to us! Can he? He can’t—”

He cut him off with a flush and gave a knowing glance on his way to the sink. It was a look that told him that he had something brewing. “Who, Charlie?” he asked, scrubbing his hands. Sometimes it was so easy to tell that he was just biding his time, waiting for Mac to come down from his rage, even just for a moment, so he could swoop in and tell him how to think. Sometimes it was so easy to just let him. 

So he played his part and continued with his tirade. “Who else?! And _first_ of all, I did _not_ consent to this, okay?! This—it’s sexual _assault!_ Or it’s harassment—or at least _libel,_ dude! I’m pretty sure it's illegal to lie about people like that. Maybe you and me need to think about lawyering up.”

He told him, “Mac, you’re not thinking this through.”

It’s true—thinking things out has never been a strong suit for him. Still, the visceral disgust he had for anything remotely homosexual was a pretty strong deterrence against rational thought. It didn’t matter. He had God in his corner. The almighty. All he has to do is pray every once in a while, call upon Him in times of need, and stay in his Christian, woman-loving, tranny-punching lane, and everything is sure to tip in his favor eventually, because those with strong faiths are to be rewarded handsomely. 

“What could I possibly need to think through?” he asked, fruitlessly trying to kill off whatever pitch Dennis had in mind before it began.

He responded as he dried his hands, “The frozen margs here go for eight dollars a pop, did you know that?”

_”Eight _dollars?!” Momentarily, Mac got to be outraged by something different. “Dennis, that’s _insane!”___

____

____

He pondered it briefly, his pupils flashing up. “No, no that’s pretty standard. But it doesn’t matter—the _point.”_ He clasped a hand onto Mac’s shoulder. Instinct wanted him to shrug it off as fast as possible, but it had forfeited the reigns the instant he was touched. Dennis’ eyes bore deeply into him, probably just to make sure his words were properly registering. “Is that this is a potential _goldmine.”_

Mac tore his gaze away, only for it to land on the hand gripping his shoulder. He swallowed, adamant on staying strong. “I don’t care how much you pay me, Dennis, you can’t suck my dick.”

And the hand was gone, thankfully, now stuck to Dennis’ hip. “Can you focus? Like, is that possible for you? Please?”

“I’m _just_ clarifying.”

He shouted, “You don’t need to clarify—” He cut himself off, briefly brought the back of his hand to his mouth, and gulped down his frustration. “Look. It’s less than ideal, but this is a _good_ plan, Mac.”

Desperately, instinctively, he thrashed against whatever the hell Dennis was trying to peddle. “But Charlie is writing about our _dicks,_ dude!”

“I _know_ Charlie is writing about our dicks! But this is much bigger than that!” After a deep breath, he began mapping it out for Mac as nicely as he could, so, in other words, teetering just between calm and exasperated. “He struck something _niche_ and you know how niches are.”

Sometimes Mac is like a planet that rotates really really fast. Like Jupiter—you wouldn’t expect it based on how formidable he seems, but he’s flopping between day and night quicker than you can say secularization. 

He was obsessed with Dennis’ energy. He was desperate too—to get him to understand. He trusted him—valued his loyalty. Mac wished to please him. 

For him, he would understand.

But his mind suddenly felt as empty as the cosmos, so he just stared blankly at his jaw, as sharp as a really cool knife at the flea market. 

His eyes shot to the ceiling. _”Passionate,_ dude. People have passion for their niches, okay? You following me?”

“Uh...” He followed his jawline down to his collarbone, slighting peeking out between the buttons on his shirt. “Passion. Got it.”

“And Charlie said it’s five bucks per chapter, that’s _per_ girl, right? And he said he was pumping them out like crazy. Just think about that for a second.” 

Mac was thinking about Dennis’ chest, as smooth as a freshly wiped-down bar. 

“We wouldn’t need to do anything we wouldn’t normally do, and since we’re the subjects, we deserve a big cut of the revenue, right?” 

Based on the cadence of his voice, now was the time for Mac to nod and say, “Uh-huh.”

“But on the other hand—if we cultivate this…” Without warning, Dennis’ index finger gingerly looped around Mac’s, and instantaneously, he was weightless. Sound ceased to travel, except for his voice, becoming hushed as he leaned closer. “Act it _out,_ even… Who’s to say we can’t amass some sort of following?” 

His fingers slowly edged over the back of Mac’s hand as he spoke. Shivers surged down his spine like electricity. Dennis was a screwdriver without a rubber handle, and Mac was the faulty circuit breaker. 

Countless questions rumbled around his brain, all superseded by lovesick adrenaline. Whether or not for a scheme, Dennis was close, and he was touching him.

Mac never felt the need to keep track of how many times this scenario runs through his head any given week, because it’s a lot. Well, never this _exact_ scenario. In some, Dennis confesses his love first—on his knees, in the cockpit of a crashing helicopter, underwater, with a gun to his head—really, in whatever way serves Mac’s needs of the day best. In a few of them though, he’s the first to confess, although usually in this daydream he’s immediately defeated in combat directly afterwards—a shuriken to the face, a torrent of bullets ripping him apart, a swordsman swording him where it hurts most (the heart). 

In a select few, they run away together.

Automatically, his hand shifted so that Dennis could tighten his grip, his smooth palm pressed firmly against Mac’s much clammier one. He was whispering now, his voice steady and gentle. “A fan club… a fan _base,_ even. That’s a lot of profit we’re about to pass up here, pal.”

Mac was trapped by his fierce gaze, and had to battle to keep his breathing steady and his legs still. He didn’t dare move. He clung onto the only reason this was even possible. “A lot of profit…” he trailed off. His eyes snapped to their hands, entangled by his side. 

Dennis continued to speak softly. “Now, you’ve got to know that, with or without us, Frank and Charlie are gonna do this.”

See, Mac definitely watched his beautiful lips move a bunch, right? But couldn’t actually decipher any of it, since Dennis had decided to run his thumb along the side of his hand, down to the tip of his pinky. When he spoke again, still uncharacteristically light and delicate, like whipped cream, Mac made sure to pay attention. “And you and I, we have a connection, do we not?”

“Yes,” he instantly breathed, hardly audible. He looked up, to his face. His eyes monitored their hands, intertwined and gently swaying. Mac was close enough to see the spaces between their short lashes. 

“So selling this is gonna be a goddamn _sinch.”_ He squeezed his grip tight. “Don’t you see?” 

His eyes snapped to Mac’s. There was a sharp recognition in them, much different from the glazed over indifference that usually took its place. They were wide, eager almost, and worked tirelessly to drive home their point. Mac was their sole focus. He wished he could bottle up the feeling and stow it away someplace safe.

“So why don’t we,” he abruptly tore his hand away, _”Fuck_ Charlie over!”

Rudely jolted awake, Mac stifled a sharp gasp. “Oh—kay!” he blurted, forcing an unconvincing grin.

“‘Cause this is _our_ business!” he declared. _”Our_ empire, huh?!” A rageful tint washed over his entire body, from his wired expression to his obsessive pacing. 

Mac decided to forcibly mirror his excitement. “Yeah!”

He stopped all of a sudden, an idea evidently having popped in his head, which he proceeded to present with pride. “The Dennis _Mac_ empire,” he revealed, cocking his head to the side, a sinister look creeping onto his face.

At this enticing prospect, Mac emitted a slow, awed gasp. “I _like_ that…”

“Shit, me too, bro!” He grinned, rapidly rubbing his hands together in exhilaration.

Mac said, “We’ll work on the name.”

“The name’s perfect,” he replied enthusiastically, the grin unphased. _”You. Me_ —that’s all we got—that’s all we need—by God, they will fear this name!”

Mac briefly hesitated before subtly correcting him, _”Charlie_ will?”

He just exclaimed, “Aw! Yes! Okay! Check this out.” His arm fell heavily over Mac’s shoulder. Slow and serious, he said, “We’re taking this shit over.”

“Yeah!” Mac exclaimed again, but more genuine this time. He was infinitely grateful for any team-up opportunity with his BFF. He couldn’t believe what was happening—Dennis was pumped to be around him—they were actually going to do this, whatever _this_ was. It felt right, it felt easy, and by _God,_ Mac was going to devour anything that came his way. Screw God.

Dennis kept hyping him up after he released him. “Like, were we really gonna sit back and watch them take all our money?!”

Mac was a puppy, being offered a walk. “Hell no, dude!”

Dennis beamed. “So you know what we have to do!”

Unneutered and overridden by excitement, Mac unzipped his pants. Admittedly, things were going a bit too fast for his liking, but he was ready to seize any opportunity, not knowing if he’d ever get another one. He administered a stern look and clasped his hand to his shoulder. “I’m prepared to make this sacrifice, Dennis.”

Mac winced at a sudden sharp pain in his bicep.

Dennis yelled, “We’re not doing it for real, asshole!”

“No?”

“No!” he cried, before emitting a deep sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’ll all be fake, Mac. We’re putting on a show, plain and simple. We won’t even have to kiss, alright—these girls are so desperate for any shred of homosexual romance—we could just—” He used the same hand he used to smack him with to caress the affected shoulder. It was shocking; Dennis had just been scolding him, and Mac’s arm hadn’t known his hand aside from its coarse, painful blows. The back of it was cold as it slowly slid down his arm, where it lightly grasped his elbow for a moment before falling away. “Brush our hands across each other’s skin.”

Some pointless, reflexive comment rose and died in his throat. He hated how he wished he would do that again, slower and smoother. It was way better than any of the accidental shoulder grazes or occasional games of footsie that Mac had tried to initiate in the past. It was deliberate and tender, the way it was in his daydreams. It was a painful trigger, reminding Mac of how helplessly in love he was. He just stood there, soaking it in. He closed his eyes.

And when two fingers traced Mac’s jaw, they snapped back open to be met with another pair—half closed and longing, almost. “Or,” Dennis breathed, his piercing stare unwavering and his hand gripping the corner of Mac’s face. He seemingly dared him to just try pulling away, knowing full well that there was no conceivable way that he could. Mac was about ready to melt into his baby blues when Dennis’ eyelids shuttered away and his mouth pulled into a sideways grin, releasing a low chuckle. “We could share a passionate gaze.”

“Yeah,” he swooned.

Dennis whispered, “Or, we make it seem… like just _maybe…”_ He shifted his hand so that his thumb was pressed gently onto his chin. He pinched it between his fingers, coaxing his head to tilt upwards. Mac surrendered to both his desire and whatever he wanted to do with him. Reciprocation had finally come, granted, out of nowhere, and he didn’t care that it was in Paddy’s grimy bathroom. With a gentle smile stuck to his face, Dennis closed his eyes and started to lean in, pulling Mac’s face closer at the same time. He almost wanted to keep his eyes open, just to be able to verify at every moment that this wasn’t a dream, to be able to watch, but it was like the moment just wouldn’t allow it. When he figured Dennis’ lips ought to be closing in on his own, he spoke instead, his fresh breath on Mac’s mouth. “We might kiss.” 

He was released, and he might as well have been floating in interstellar space. When his eyes snapped open, all he could see was Dennis’ back, framed by shelves of cleaning supplies. “But that’d be forbidden, of course,” he said clearly, before swiveling back around to face Mac. Any ounce of tenderness or adoration on his face had been replaced by stone-cold severity. He lifted an eyebrow at him. 

“Why?” Mac blurted, not caring about how desperate he sounded.

Dennis stayed suspended in consideration for about a second, before explaining, “Because we’re repressing our homosexuality.”

A sinking feeling tore through his gut. His face was suddenly too hard to look at, like it was the sun. Mac tethered one hand to the other in front of him, and, in the effort of flying back under the gaydar, finished his sentence. “In the story.” 

“In the story,” he affirmed sternly. 

Mac didn’t feel as relieved as he wished he did. He continued to stare at the paper towel dispenser, feeling like he had just been rudely woken up by 80 yowling alleycats or something.

A single, booming clap made him flinch. His eyes darted back to Dennis, who was beaming wildly, a sinister glint in his eye. “Welp! Glad we’re both on board. Let’s _get_ dat coin, baby!” he exclaimed proudly before waltzing out of the bathroom without another word.

Mac gulped down the impromptu confession that was in his throat. He stared at the dingy sink cabinets for a good while, wishing he could go back in time and stay there. If only Dennis knew how badly he wanted it, maybe he wouldn’t have toyed with his little gay heart like that. 

As the adversarial ‘g’ word echoed around Mac’s brain, he released a loud, pent up sigh. He hated himself for wanting it so badly, but almost hated Dennis more for denying it from him. Mostly, he hated how stupid and horny he was. Of fucking course, nothing was _ever_ going to happen here. The sigh didn’t cut it, so he threw a fist into the bathroom stall. He cried out in agony, clutching his hand.

He hated the bathroom stall, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will update sporadically  
> hungry 4 comments  
> shoot me an ask at bastardmanvibes.tumblr.com


	2. Fake Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dennis isn’t in love.  
> ........unless? 😳

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello babes! sorry i write slow. i’ve actually been sitting on this chapter for a while and i rly got lost in it while i was writing it but uh yeah, i think it turned out? lmk. lol. i’ve been told that my dennis is very snarky. i cannot contest this. i uh... shit, what to say about dennis? relationship status—complicated. if u follow me on tumblr then uh... yeah u uh... u know. ur with it.  
> CW: the bastard man, homophobia, sexual assault but ok it’s not that bad ok, fat-shaming, uhhh the bastard man like he’s a huge bastard i’m serious, shitty metaphors, and way too many italics. sips beer.

Consider, if you will, the cat.

You may be picturing a velvety calico—elusive, cunning, on the prowl. Or perhaps there’s a vivacious, emboldened tabby romping around your brain right now. Maybe it’s a stoic tuxedo, fluffy to the touch with thousands of silky-soft strands of thoroughly preened and cleaned kitty hair. Either way, that cat knows what it’s about. It takes pride in what it’s good at—hunting, looking gorgeous, and equipping the tools, strength, agility, and agency required to maul you to death at any given moment. But there’s no need to worry, however, because they know wisely that it’s best to never act on such urges. 

Now, consider the dog.

Quite frankly, it couldn’t matter less which breed you’re imagining, because much like cats, they’re all the same. Toss a frisbee—it will catch it. Own a rug—it’ll pee on it. Open your heart and give it commands, because it won’t be asking any questions. You’re its god, effective immediately.

The cat watches and waits, reaping benefits long ago sown. It custom-tailors its feline experience, and it does so with flawless grace.

It enjoys life on its own terms.

Despite the dog.

  
  


Finally, something worthwhile.

Dennis strolled out of the bathroom with the air of a man who had just uncovered a shiny, new, dazzling reason to thrive. His bones were glowing, his eyes were full, his heart brimming with a lovely, manic energy that pulsed on the surface of his skin. 

He beamed at three pairs of beautiful, wide eyes scattered around the bar. Yes, even Frank’s bulging bug eyes were beautiful this morning, because they eagerly hungered for what was on the tip of Dennis’ tongue. 

Uh, nothing weird. He wanted to hear what he had to say, that is. 

So he happily obliged. His hands on his hips, his lips parted to give the gift of his vital participation and immaculate leadership. “He’s in.”

There was silence. Dee cocked her head to the side.

One arm fell limply to his side as he shifted his weight to one foot. He emphasized, _”We’re in.”_ They should be jumping at the chance to strategize with him now. Dennis couldn’t wait on them. He was teetering on the precipice of something quite rewarding, frozen still, eyes on the prize, eager to pounce. He could practically feel his toes curling over the edge of the high dive, could almost see the beckoning crystal clear blues below him. He _needed_ that splash. He opened his mouth to dive headfirst, but Charlie and Dee shared a glance. 

“Why?” she said curtly.

Taken by surprise, he quickly hissed back, “Why? What does that mean, _why?”_ Usually, he’d be more tactful than this, but it was beyond him, why they always felt the need to conjure up a reason to limit him, and he was severely lacking in the patience department today. Evidently, they didn’t see the same beauty he saw in the water. The hope that he’d be able to skip the explanation portion of the scheme died quickly, albeit pretty painfully. 

Starting slow and hesitantly, Charlie spoke up. “We… never asked for your help, dude.”

“The _hell,_ y—you involved me in this the _second_ you conceived of a gay erotica scheme!”

Just Dee laughed initially. Then Frank, then Charlie. 

In frustration, he brought up a fist to rest on his nose for a moment. “The second you _wrote me into,_ your gay erotica. For _fucks,_ sake, you guys.”

Frank, sat next to Charlie, said, “Well what about him?” He jabbed a finger towards the bathroom door.

A loud thud came from inside, followed by the unmistakable sound of Mac yelping in pain. 

“Oh, he can’t wait,” said Dennis. 

Propping himself on the bar with a hand to his forehead, Charlie released a deep sigh. “Can’t wait for _what,_ Dennis?” Mildly annoyed, his eyes popped as he patronizingly spelled it out to him. “There is, _nothing,_ for you, to do okay? _Tasks,_ have been _divvied.”_

“Divvied ‘em up good,” Frank affirmed.

Dennis didn’t skip a beat. His thumb loosely jutting out, he pursed his lips as he glanced behind him, vaguely gesturing to the bathroom and back to Charlie. “Oh, we’re gonna act it out,” he casually clarified, “Yeh.”

Frank and Charlie shared a glance.

Per usual, despite his best efforts, things were derailed faster than his liking. He blurted, “Stop sharing glances! C’mon, what’s the deal with that?”

Bowing his head, Frank prodded him, “Why’d’ya wanna act it out, Dennis?”

Charlie threw his voice to sound like a british royal as he leaned back with both elbows on the bar, “Mmyes, what doth you stand to gain, Den- _nice?”_

Well they were going a bit heavy on the stupid juice today, huh? 

“I’d like to know that as well…” Dee said, as fake-nice as she could muster.

Admittedly, on paper, there _was_ quite a bit to it, and Dennis did tend to consistently overestimate the gang’s critical thinking abilities.

“It’s the most natural progression of the plan,” he explained, but not without a quick eye-roll. 

“Oh, is it now?” said Dee.

Charlie corrected him, “Not a plan, dude. Passion project.”

Frank completed his sentence, _“When,_ managed with care, is able to produce a surprising amount of revenue!”

Dennis threw a finger at the dirty one. “Charlie if you _ever_ try to talk to me about your ‘passion’ for describing my jizzum in detail, I will not hesitate to punt you directly into next tuesday.” 

“So, like time travel?” His tone went perky. “Pretty cool…”

All he could do was glare as he gestured to the fat one. “So I’ll be talking to _him,_ now, about this.” In hindsight, the pitch that he began was inevitable. “Yes, Frank, revenue. Profit. _Growth._ Now that’s what I wanna focus on here, _not,_ the uh, ‘artistic direction,’ which I could not _possibly_ care less for, if that wasn’t already perfectly goddamn clear.”

“Yoouu like it,” Charlie insisted.

“He loves it,” Dee said firmly.

You wanna know what Dennis loves? He loves when shit is easy, because on a day to day basis, he’s got to make peace with the unchangeable fact that his so-called friends are the most difficult, incensing cogs to ever jam up a delicate, deliberately layered process. He loves a good action movie, he loves his beauty rest, and he would love it if these two dramamongering orangutans would learn to value respect over the first playground-ready insult that popped into their tiny, overstrained brains.

He snapped at them, “I actually hate it?” He squinted. “I _hate_ Mac? Yeah, pretty sure—eh-thanks, though! For your…” he squinted even harder, “ _help.”_

Charlie slurred, “If ya hate him, why do you wanna kiss him so bad?” 

Charlie and Dee laughed and clinked their beers. 

Fuck’s sake, they _were_ on a playground, weren’t they? The little patience he had left was dwindling fast, the surface of his skin starting to simmer. He dispelled the little rumor quickly and clearly, emphasizing every syllable, “Kissing him is not on the table—now I’m trying to talk, can we zip it? _Can_ we zip it?!” He brought down his tone. “Please. See, I’m even asking you nicely.”

“Whatever, _queer,”_ said Dee with an expectant smile. 

Charlie subtly shook his head at her.

Frank said, “Lemme hear the details, Dennis.”

As he often does, he attempted to vaporize his sister with a penetrating stare before graciously skating past it. “Gladly, Frank.” He assumed his position at the helm by ambling a few steps to the right. “Don’t get excited people, ‘cause it’s just gonna be a bunch of hand-holding. Absolutely nothing that I wouldn’t do with any one of you…” His eyes glided past his abrasive, boney sister, staunchly scruffy lifelong friend, and the toad-like pile of flesh with glasses that he was supposed to call his father. “Uh, given the unique parameters of this scam.”

They weren’t nodding along.

He cleared his throat and spoke faster. “After all, that’s the job of our consumer base, to get rabidly excited for something that clearly…” a laugh escaped, rolling into his words, “is never gonna happen…” He snapped back to action. “So! The goal! Our aim is to build as much tension as possible, be it romantic or sexual, so that we may spark interest, drawing in a bigger audience, _thus!_ Sellin’ more ‘ritas. You guys remember that will-they-won’t-they dynamic that we did with Mac and Dee once, right? Well think of it exactly like that—but gay… And mind you. That _is_ the most important part, alright. That’s what our audience will be honing in on, okay, so I want you all to be prepared for that.”

Charlie raised his hand.

Dennis called on him, “Yes.”

“Yeah, I don’t remember that.”

“I don’t care.”

“Okay. Uhh-follow-up question. Should we not wait on Mac for this?”

“No, Charlie, and I’ll tell you why—”

A gruff, grating, “Ohhhhh,” erupted from Dee’s mouth, as she realized something she thought was clever, and proceeded to smugly share it. “‘Cause he’s got it hot in the crotch for you, right?”

“No, Dee,” Dennis said. Then what she said actually registered. “Wait. Yes.” He pointed at her, now, “Surprisingly… yes, you are correct.”

Charlie raised his hand again.

Dennis said in a nice tone, “When you have something to say, just fucking say it.” 

“Yep.” He lowered his hand. “Okay, so _I_ was under the impression that we _weren’t_ supposed to bring that up? Am I wrong in that assumption?” 

“It is painfully obvious,” Dee said monotonously. 

Dennis began to pace. He threw a pointer to the ceiling, “You both bring up excellent points. Dee, you being the sloppy, reprehensible outlaw of the group, have certainly broken a rule—nay! An essential pillar—nay! The _foundation_ of the very structure that _is_ the gang! That’s it—you’ve just taken a jackhammer to our rock-solid foundation, you bitch.”

They all blinked at him.

“It may be common knowledge, but some shit you just don’t bring up, man.” 

Charlie and Frank stammered loudly in agreement. 

“And now you’ve got _me_ of all people, drawing attention to this unspoken rule, eh-which is just madness. Would you, for once, just think before you speak?”

Frank and Charlie fell in line marvelously, immediately shouting obnoxious insults at her, ranging from bitch to bird to bandit. (Charlie struggled a bit with the outlaw parallel).

“Seriously?” Dee snapped in a high pitched voice. She sneered at them, firmly crossing her arms. “Okay, you know what? This is not a _game._ You could really do some real damage here.” Her tone sank into a kind of faux-concern at the end, the sugary, syrup-like sweetness spilling out simply being a strong indication that she was faking it. “I mean, the boy already thinks God’s gonna smite him if he comes out. Dennis, you throw this on top of him and he might be in there forever.”

He hadn’t really thought of it like that.

What a fuckin’ bonus, right?

With the crux of his pitch made, he sauntered towards the bar to take his seat nearest the front door as he effortlessly faked a laugh. “Coming from the woman who, just moments ago, hurled a homophobic slur at me.”

She clicked her tongue, “That wasn’t a slur!”

Charlie spoke up, “Actually, it’s complicated—”

Dennis held out a flattened hand. “We’ll be here all day.” He turned back to his sister. “Listen, uh, _Dee,_ I get that you think you got this whole, empathetic, maternal aura or whatever, but seriously, you have _got_ to stop insisting that Mac is some kinda victim here.”

“I’m not—” 

“Ah-ah-ah,” he wagged his finger, “Yes, you were.”

Frank and Charlie mumbled in hesitant agreement.

“When clearly, in fact, it’s his _own_ fault that he’s so emotionally stunted he can hardly function. Christ, like what, am I supposed to just drop everything so I can dote on his insecure ass? You intend for me to coax him out of the closet myself, is that it?” His knuckles rapped the bar twice, ordering the bird-girl to go ahead and beer him already. “Sure, I do _like_ thinking that I have a natural penchant for inciting change, but,” he chuckled, his head shaking back and forth, “I’m no miracle worker.”

The bottle cap hissed on its way off. Her eyes narrowed as she slammed it down hard in front of him, sending frigid droplets erupting from the top. He was about to loudly complain about it when her expression suddenly softened. That was never once a good sign. 

Her eyelids gently closed, she spoke in that light, stickily sweet voice again, “Mm, yes… but what about _you_ brother?” Her eyes snapped open, overflowing with white-hot recognition. It drove a sharp, thin spike through Dennis’ throat, which he had to quickly gulp down. 

Oh, the _audacity._

Clutching his drink with both hands, he chuckled under his breath. He pulled his eyes up from the bar to Dee’s face. He had taken note of her indignance, and raised her bull-headed tenacity. 

Why, he simply just couldn’t begin to fathom what she could quite possibly have meant by that. 

He said, his words weightless, like a feather, “What _about_ me, Dee?”

So far, Charlie and Frank had been mostly resigned to listening, until they both sucked in a breath between their teeth. 

And in that moment, Dennis realized how utterly damp the back of his neck was. 

“I-I gotta take a leak,” declared Frank as he hopped off his stool.

“Frank, halt!” Dennis bellowed, his finger reflexively thrusting towards him.

Charlie was on his feet too. “Nah-ah, man, don’t look at us—there’re _reasons_ why we wanted to do this without you, dude, I _told_ you!”

He now regretted taking a seat. Control was for the taking, and Dennis found himself startled like a housecat who didn’t expect you to come bounding around the corner so soon.

“Reasons, _plural?!”_ he blurted. “There are no _reasons,_ Charlie, come on.” He exhaled a nervous chuckle. “What uh, what _are_ they, though?”

Dee chirped, “Other than the fact that you’re helplessly in love with him?”

Hilarious!

Absolutely, irrevocably, unquestionably fucking comical! Oh, and completely novel, too! The freshest, funniest thing he’d heard in a while!

For a moment, Dennis seethed.

Resilience is key.

A strong, hearty laugh shot out of his mouth. He shook his head and took a sip from his beer in order to spell out how completely unphased he was, just in case those imbeciles were actually buying into her nonsense.

He inspected the label as he calmly spoke. “It _would_ seem that way sometimes, wouldn’t it?”

Dee half-groaned, half-scoffed.

Frank mumbled, “Charlie and I weren’t gonna say nothin’.” He flinched when Charlie backhanded his shoulder.

His shoulders tensely raised, he slyly inched for that elusive conductor’s baton. “Eyeah, so _sure, sometimes_ … I take advantage of certain,” his lips pursed as his head tipped to the left, _“aspects,_ of our relationship…”

Dee blurted excitedly, “Ahh-relationship! Relationship—we all heard it! That’s what he called it!” An obviously forced grin plastered to her face, she pointed at him and stared at the other two.

Frank vaguely gestured to his own roommate. “So what? I’m in a relationship with Charlie.”

“No, ah, nuh-no,” Dee stammered.

“We got relationships out the ass, Dee.” Charlie rifled them off for her, “Me and Frank. You and me. Mac and me. Mac and Dennis. Me and that waitress. I mean—I could go on if you want me to ‘cause I know tons of people.”

“No, you don’t!”

And thus, all was well once more. Dennis couldn’t help but grin. “And you know, dear sister, your relationship really does mean a lot to me. So I appreciate the concern, I do. But I want you to ask yourself—can you really blame me for… simply wanting to _utilize_ his annoying… albeit _harmless_ little crush sometimes?”

“Yes!” she cried, “That is _exactly_ what I’m trying to do!” 

He simply made eye contact with the others and threw a glance at the ceiling.

Clearly processing things, Charlie stroked his beard. “Is _that_ what’s going on?” Looking skeptical, he snapped his head to Frank.

He replied slowly, “Verryy _interesting,_ Charlie.”

He squinted at Dennis. “Interesting _indeed,_ Frank.”

He didn’t know what they were talking about and that made him quite angry. 

“What are you talking about?” he demanded quite angrily. 

One of Charlie’s shoulders shooting up, a palm to the ceiling, he said simply, “Yeah, we just sorta assumed it was sexual tension, y’know, like… the real kind? And hey, that’s our bad, bro.”

“It _is_ sexual tension!” Dee hollered.

They were on a roll today. It was just _so_ charming. Dennis was thankful that in their sad, contemptible, meaningless, excruciating, sinful, insignificant, depressing, puny little existences, they can scrounge some satisfaction out of ganging up on the smart one. Both Mac and Dennis are impeccable specimens of man, so of _course_ there’s gonna be some sexual tension. This is like, first grade stuff. Sexual tension is not the byproduct of “attraction,” but of any two divinely sculpted bodies occupying the same space for long enough! You may be thinking to yourself, oooohhh that means there’s chemistry—well there isn’t. It’d be like a cat and a dog trying to fuck each other. 

Lose the idea.

It’s leverage. A tool. Nothing more.

Mac was too dumb to see that he was toying with him, but yet again, it seemed he had overestimated the rest of the gang’s ability to understand the simplest of concepts.

So he broke it down.

The corners of his lips tight, he said, “Dee, tension only exists in the presence of possibility. And me and _Mac?”_ A choppy laugh was cut short. “Not possible.”

Charlie wondered, “So you stare at him all the time because…”

“I do not _stare_ at him,” Dennis snapped without thinking.

“Hey man,” he said calmly. “I’m just tryin’ to touch base with you, here.”

Frank adopted an appalling off-brand of a fatherly tone. “Dennis. You can talk to me.”

He blinked away his surprise.

“What’s there to talk about?!” He hated how defensive he sounded—he had to choose his words more carefully. Gravely offended, his argument rapidly spilled out. “One sexy smirk and he’s caught up in a frenzy, what part of that don’t you understand? That’s _power._ I bat my eyelashes and he does whatever I tell him to!”

“Like a slave?” asked Charlie.

“Ye—no! Not like a slave!”

Frank said, “Like a sex slave.” 

Scalding frustration bubbled in his blood. He leaned hastily into it. “Jesus! It’s as if you two are _purpose_ fully misunderstanding me! I mean, it is _un_ believable!”

“Maybe you just suck at explaining,” said Charlie.

“No, _you_ suck at listening!”

Dee jeered, “And you suck Mac’s—”

“You know what!” Dennis cried. His back as stiff as a board, his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring, he decided to let it go. That was the healthy option, after all. He released a slow, deep breath, followed by a chuckle. He opened his eyes, furiously intent on not giving a shit about what they think. 

He’d prove them wrong soon, anyhow. 

“I’ve realized something,” he announced. “I’ve actually thought about it a lot, and I… have decided…that…” He paused to take in their reactions—ranging from unimpressed to impatient to whatever strange emotion Frank was emitting. Then he revealed, “This is the perfect plan.” They all groaned. “N-heeyyy! Listen! It actually makes a ton of sense. I’m used to Mac globbing onto me, at least now I’ll get a payout for it.”

All their heads snapped to the sound of the bathroom door creaking open.

Mac shuffled out. Dennis read him just like an erotic memoir.

On the inside, he was flustered, frantic, and gay. But on the outside, he was steady, quiet, and gay.

He could tell by how his fevered brown eyes snapped to him first. They weren’t the subdued gooey puppy eyes of his normal resting expression. He could tell Mac had put himself through it in that bathroom from the askew collar of his t-shirt and the greased tufts of hair sticking out in the back of his head, also they could totally hear him grunting in there the whole time they were talking, but it just wasn’t important to mention until now. Not that Mac’s aggressive gay turmoil and odd masturbation habits weren’t par-for-the-course background noises at this point.

He spat a quick, unconvincing, “What?” at them before making a detour to snatch up all three abandoned margaritas from the booth next to the jukebox. 

Keen on demonstrating his abilities, Dennis mouthed the word, “Watch,” at the gruesome twosome.

Mac sulked at the clunky glasses that he hugged to his chest on the way to the stool on Dennis’ left, almost tucked away in the corner, and clumsily set them down. Nobody ever tells Mac to sit next to Dennis, or vice versa, but even in this climate, they found themselves doing it out of habit. 

Dennis drank in the sight of him. He was too large for the space between him and the wall behind the bar, and his color and the air around him was warm. 

It wasn’t right. Mac got to be perpetually sexy. When Dennis gets flustered and scared, he gets all sweaty and his eyes go crazy and it’s just not pretty for anybody, but Mac was a sight to see no matter the circumstances. And it wasn’t easy for Dennis to admit that, here, okay.

His muscles were tight, the veins on his neck rigid, his cheeks flushed from orgasm and the threat of exposure.

Hot.

Violating trust has never been a particular joy for Dennis, so he was a bit taken aback by his legitimate excitement for what he was about to do to him. Lawfully, theoretically, he took no pleasure in it. But if that’s what the plan calls for… well… he certainly didn’t plan on causing any additional problems by allowing his dopey convictions to affect his thinking. 

“Hey, bud,” he cooed, gingerly wrapping an arm around his broad shoulders. 

Mac tensed up, huffed a sigh, and said, referring to the drinks, “Dennis. Stop. You are _not_ getting one.”

Dennis snatched a glance at Charlie and Frank. Visibly, uncomfortable.

So he eased up accordingly. It wasn’t time to sweat, not just yet. “Hey—no worries, man, message received. Loud and clear.” His arm now removed, he made up for it by scooting his stool close, forcing him even more towards the wall. Their thighs touched. Dennis flashed a toothy grin. Mac shimmied away to create a small gap, and acted fast to suck down a large portion of one of his drinks. The grin vanished.

When the gang gaped at the both of them, Dennis showed no outward signs of being scared shitless. This was going to take finesse. After clearing his throat, he said steadily, “So Mac, we were just talking about how the whole operation’s gonna go down. I was thinking,” he looked at Charlie, who appeared a cross between angry and confused, “You and I should get fifty percent, how’s that sound?”

“Too much,” growled Frank.

“How ‘bout _zero?”_ Charlie suggested, with a bit of spice.

Dee crowed, “Well I say they should have sixtyyy-niiine.” 

“Ch!” Dennis scolded her, two of his fingers quickly waving her off.

“Fifteen each,” said Frank.

“What?!” Charlie cried, “Frank! No!” 

“Whaaat? I gotta see where this goes!”

Charlie screeched about integrity or something while Frank stammered some nonsense about opportunity and homoeroticism. 

...Or something. Not like it mattered. His attention was elsewhere.

Mac remained quiet, holding onto his drink for dear life. The corners of Dennis’ mouth perked up. 

There weren’t many opportunities where he was vulnerable enough, and Dennis had excuse enough. In other words, the stars aligned themselves. Actually, it would be far more accurate to liken Dennis to a God of sorts, as he was the one who had plucked the planets from their orbits so he could line them up like dominoes.

At first, only the side of his hand touched the back of Mac’s. And just barely, too.

He didn’t have anywhere to go, and Dennis knew it well. He held the short leash steady.

Since he didn’t want to scare him, he bided a bit of time, feigning interest in Charlie and Frank’s needless bickering until Dee caved in to join them too. Something about Frank being homophobic.

His pinky sped through the green light, climbing up Mac’s knuckles one by one until it reached his pointer, wet with condensation. 

Dennis’ pupils darted to him briefly. Seeing that his face had evolved from nervous concentration to panic because of him was essentially… euphoric. The way his neck tightened, sensational, pleasingly pathetic.

But give him a break, the kid wasn’t used to him being so forward. He was so warm blooded, too, and too stupid to know that he shouldn’t grasp the glass like that, transferring all that heat to his frozen drink.

He was smart enough to share the moment with him, though. They didn’t look at each other, the same way they don’t look at each other in the mirror when they brush their teeth. There was an understanding. A mutual, pointedly undefined… _sense._ It was almost primal, like an instinct. It lived in the steam in their kitchen, on the bill of their fancy dinner, in the silence after the credits roll. It stuck to their sheets and clothes. It lurked in the alley at early hours of the morning, and in the bar, and in the Range Rover, especially at stop lights, and at Dee’s place. Two divinely sculpted bodies. Two exhausted, intertwined minds. 

They could make each other feel good. To an extent.

Dennis turned his hand so he could feel more. The awkward angle hardly even bothered him. 

They were in the bar. Plain sight. It was exhilarating. 

And when he caught Dee’s glare, he didn’t have to recoil. He simply kept the smile he was already wearing.

Never before did he imagine he could be so satisfied by Frank and Charlie being so loud.

There was absolutely nothing they could do to stop him from nudging his pinky between Mac’s forefinger and the glass, attempting to pry it away so that they could do this properly. He was unsuccessfully resisting, tightening his grip until he was white-knuckled. Apparently, he didn’t want to feel good right now. 

Dee’s crisp scowl softened again when Dennis looked back up at her. She wasn’t smug this time, though, she was silently bargaining with him. 

Sometimes, the twins know each other better than they know themselves. 

This was not one of those times. 

No way in hell was he gonna let her nose her way into this. He wasn’t gonna let her tout about morals, or love, or identity. She’s shit at all of that stuff. Fuck her, by God, he won’t let her take this away from him. 

Dennis looped his pinky tight around Mac’s forefinger and pulled, firmly. 

What followed was sloppy. Mac’s hand, cemented to the glass, almost brought it down with it before he brought in reinforcements, his other hand, and ditched the straw entirely to hastily bring it to his face so he could finish it off. 

Dennis’ left fell limply to the bar, alone. 

The faintest laugh came from Dee. “Hmph.”

Frank’s voice was outright disturbing. “Okay, Charlie says he’s fine with you guys sharin’ twenty at the start. Now, we’ll give you more once we start _seein’_ more.”

Dennis didn’t hear anything. Throbbing white anger felt entitled to the reins. 

Mac spoke up finally, his voice a bit shaky. “No way I’m doing this for less than twenty.”

He had to assert himself and take what he was owed. Now.

“You _are_ gettin’ twenty,” Frank grumbled.

“We’d be splitting it, Frank!” Mac finally looked at them directly.

Dennis’ hand ventured somewhere new. Somewhere scandalous. 

“Well, you guys’re used to splittin’ stuff, aren’t ya?!” 

Just like the rest of his body, Mac’s thigh was warm, even through his pants.

In a snap second, they made eye contact. 

He was stunned, mortified.

Dennis reveled in it while he could.

His hand started to travel.

Mac was also skittish. Marginally too late, he leapt to his feet and exclaimed, “Woah!”

They’d all seen, of course. It is what it is.

Dennis refused to entertain the whiny cacophony inside him which juxtaposed the astoundingly loud silence that the five of them were all currently contributing to. But his throat sure was tight and tingly, and his feet were as heavy as a couple of 160-pound kegs. 

No one had permission to address it, so they stared. Charlie and Frank at Mac, and Dee at Dennis. Her glare was, admittedly, far more impactful this time, the unfiltered disgust on her face being a bit more warranted.

Despite everyone’s attention being towards Mac at the front door, Dennis still sat properly at the bar with his back to him. Lawfully abstaining from popping the tension himself, it was left up to his roommate to muster his best excuse. “I, uh, gotta run an errand all of a sudden.”

Anxious to scratch something, Dennis’ twitching claws were the only part of his body that wasn’t rigidly still. 

“What?” asked Charlie.

“Where?” asked Frank.

“I have to go to the uh, hard—” he awkwardly tugged his shirt down, “—ware store.”

A slow, quiet sigh escaped out of Dennis.

“Why?” Dee asked, disingenuously.

Mac was stumbling to the exit already, one hand shielding his eyes as he snapped a few times. “The thing we need—that we talked about, the, the—”

“Duct tape,” she said flatly.

“Duct tape—I’m getting duct tape!” he declared wildly, looking the opposite way and throwing an index finger at her.

And like that, he was gone.

Dennis glowered at three pairs of perturbing, wide eyes. They were ravenous, familiarly ravenous. He was always having to explain himself to a group of downright insufferable cretins. His breath felt absolutely wasted on them. The way they stared at him as if he owed them something, as if he’d committed some atrocity, just turned the dial even hotter. 

It was complicated, and they were simple. 

“What?” he spat.

At first, nothing was said.

Then Frank tossed his arms up. “What’dya! Ease up on the gay pedal, Dennis! Look whatcha did!”

His sentence having a bit of trouble busting out the starting gate, Dennis stammered, “Wha-wha—okay. Okay, no.” A chuckle flew out of his mouth. “That did not go as planned, I’ll give you that—but you all saw how easy that was!” 

Dee said nonchalantly, “Nobody ever said sexual harassment was difficult.”

“I-I can harness this,” he insisted.

Charlie said, “Man, that’s fucked up.”

“Just give me a little time, and—and I’ll have him eating out of my hand,” his voice got loud, “I’ll get him to do anything I want!”

“Like have sex with you?” Dee asked sarcastically. “Dennis, that’s rape.”

Frank said, “Dennis, rape is wrong.”

Charlie piled on, “Dude, we’ve been over this.”

He yowled, “God! I AM NOT INTO MAC!”

His lips stayed ajar for a moment after his voice cracked. He clung to a furrowed brow. He couldn’t stand it when his voice got all ugly and whiny and screechy and desperate. 

They just stared. For a group of loud mouths, they were doling out some excessively painful silences today. He could tell Dee was holding back a smirk. 

He was as big as a kitten. As old as one, too.

With subtlety out the window, another golden idea swooped in out of nowhere, adorned by a velvety, billowing cape. His hands shakily pat the bar. He couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I’ll—I can prove it to you—I bet I can get him to actually go through with that stunt he’s been talking about—we all know he’s gonna chicken out, no question, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Frank agreed, “Why else ya think I got the tallest ramp money can buy? Not ‘causa my passion for project _dumbass,_ that’s for sure.”

Charlie pointed at him. “Yeah, it was getting real _annoying,_ how he thought he was _cool,_ y’know? So we were gonna call his bluff n’ stuff.”

To let him know they were on the same page, Dennis eagerly completed his sentiment for him. “Ah-knock him down a peg.”

Charlie clicked his tongue and winked. “Precisely, dude.”

“Well what if I guaranteed I could send him down that ramp and into the hospital? I-I can show that not _only_ can I get him to do anything,” he ended beaming, “I also don’t give a shit if he lives or dies!”

He only noticed how hard he was breathing when the room went silent again. They appeared fearful, this time.

Charlie shared a look with Frank, and after a pause, said, “So… just curious, here. Are you like _trying_ to be the worst person alive, or…”

Dennis defended himself, “You’re the ones making me do this!”

Dee mumbled, “The fuck?”

Charlie tried to reassure him, “Dude. Like, we don’t care—why would y—” 

“That’s dark,” Frank enthused. “I’m into it!”

“It’s not about being dark! This is about making money!”

“Huh?” said Charlie.

This environment was too hostile. Dennis was on his feet, checking his pockets to make sure he had his keys and his phone and his wallet ready. “Gimme an hour or so, I’ll take him to the _store_ … do a little _sweet_ talkin’, play sugar daddy for a little while. Mark my words—when we return, he’ll be wrapped around my finger!”

“Have fun,” Dee said flatly.

He was at the front door. “Oh, I _will,”_ he said sternly, fire in his eyes.

He left, already shifted into a different gear entirely. 

  
  


And it was goddamn hot outside. It tended to peak around this time, the blistering sun directly above him, flooding the entire city in a blinding white light—much different than the poorly lit tavern.

Fighting back an urge to sneeze, Dennis blinked hard a few times as his eyes adjusted. He looked to the right, then to the left.

Mac’s walking pace very much depends on his mood. Dennis isn’t particularly proud of the title, but he’s a self-certified Mac Expert. When he was fat as shit, just about everything he did was sluggishly slow. Fat Mac is comparable to Mopey Mac, who’s pace is just half a knot below that. This is not to be misconstrued for Drunk Mac, however, who’s careful stumbling resembles the gait of a newborn fawn. On the other end of the spectrum is Normal Mac and Caffeinated Mac, who travel at 2.6 and 3.9 knots respectively. Today, though, we hone in on a different breed. Fairly newly discovered and evasive, Gay Panic Mac had motivation, had conviction, and didn’t care that it was 89 degrees outside, or that the hardware store was four miles away, because the predator of being exposed to his closest and only friends as a filthy homosexual was close on his tail. 

Dennis couldn’t help but pity him. 

He hopped in the Range Rover, since he averaged out at around 4.5 knots.

Dennis’ day was determined to turn around, undeterred by the scorching leather or the AC that resembled hot breath when he first switched it on.

Or uh, by anything else. 

No, no, he didn’t have time to think about that shit! He was at the center of a deep, dark tunnel, that’s all he knew. That’s all he’s ever known, and that is _it!_ No going sideways, no going backwards. Pick one—on the move, or wallowing in the goddamn dark. 

He flipped the visor. Aside from the dreadful film of sweat building on his forehead, his reflection greeted him well. He was tall, smooth, chiseled. He thought, what a waste of time, self hatred is. Life is laughably short. 

You’ve got to dive headfirst into any opportunity that comes your way, hairbrained or otherwise.

You’ve got to constantly appreciate everything that makes you great. Your looks, your charisma, your intellect.

You’ve got to take the Mac by the horns and ride him.

He’ll show them. He’ll show _everyone_. 

He flashed his pearly whites just because he wanted to see them. 

Still got it.

He drove briefly through the broke-down streets of South Philly until he spotted Mac shuffling on the sidewalk, drivers’ side.

Even from afar, his back essentially a spec in his encompassing view, Dennis could tell that his head was hung and his hands were in his pockets.

There was a pang. 

A too faint urge to stop nagged him, and for a moment, he heard it out. What happened to this morning? To the shin guards that he wanted him to wear?

The ache was too fierce, though, too potent. His toes grazed the surface. The air was sullen, and dead. But the water was warm.

It was going to be so easy, and Dennis loves it when things are easy.

Against an instinctual aversion, he dove—he walked towards the light. Goddammit, whatever you wanna call it! He went for it! 

He cranked his window down, drove up beside him, and said coyly, “Hey man, you lost?”

Essentially, his voice was a superpower when it was unexpected. Mac responded accordingly. 

Just like a deer in headlights.

Dennis grinned, slowing to a stop. He threw a glance around the dirty, dilapidated neighborhood surrounding them, and said, “‘Cause _this_ sure is a looong way from heaven.”

Mac put on his best I-hate-you-Dennis face, until it screwed into confusion, his head cocking a bit. “Are you _hitting_ on me right now?”

“Yeah, beautiful,” he answered with a convincing level of confidence that was borderline scary. Mac blinked. “Tell me what you think about this one.” He threw an elbow out the window and perked his lips all flirty-like. “Damn.” His eyes flicked down to Mac’s crotch, then floated up his body until they found his gorgeous face. “God must have been trying to show off when he made _you_ , girl.”

His bewildered scowl was only disrupted by his mouth dropping open. His eyes bulged, his pupils retreating away as he scoffed. 

Dennis nagged, “Now, be _honest,_ I’m well aware there’s room for improvement.” 

Mac snapped, “I’m not a girl—why’re you following me?” He started walking again, briskly this time. “You know we don’t have to do everything together.” 

Well, ouchies.

He did admire his conviction, though.

To let him know he wasn’t going anywhere, Dennis kept the car at a crawl, on stride with his best friend. He whined, “Aww, what’s with the accusations, baby?”

That certainly got him to look. He seemed genuinely perplexed—at a loss—but it burned into anger, gone as soon as it came. He kept walking.

Dennis continued, “But I’ll have you know, I just so happen to need a uh…” He came up with something on the spot. “Oh, some of those little flossers thingies, you know, like on a stick. None of that string crap,” he exaggerated a chuckle, “I mean, most of it just ends up in the trash, amiright?”

As diligent as a service dog, Mac kept his eyes forward as he said matter-of-factly, “They don’t sell those at the hardware store, jackass.”

A honk came from behind. Dennis flinched, and his smile did a flip. He stuck an arm out the window and flicked his wrist to tell them to go the fuck around. 

Mac barked, “Stop being a dick and go back to the bar.” 

Dennis pouted at him, genuinely a little bummed that he refused to look at him. He convinced him, “Come ooon, it’s hot as _shit_ today, and we wouldn’t want those guns getting sunburnt, would we?”

Mac glanced at his bicep, sleeveless and exposed to the direct sunlight. 

“And I really do need to get those… What’d I say? Flossers?”

Silently, Mac kept walking, so Dennis kept driving.

The bitch behind him honked her annoying, shrill, buzz of a horn again. 

He ordered himself to hold on. The pressure was surely getting to Mac. Just a few more seconds… and he’d be all his…

Mac stopped, snapping his eyes directly to Dennis’ with a forced severity that was downright precious. 

Once more, the sound of that God-awful horn attempted to throw him off, but save for another flinch, Dennis was decidedly unphased by it. He was enjoying the power he had over Mac and he was appreciating the sunshine bouncing off the top of his hair and making it that almost gold color that he loved. Most days, the wretched honk would be enough to push him over the edge.

Today he smiled through it. He flicked his eyebrows up.

Wincing at the sun, Mac huffed a quick sigh, dragged his feet across the road to the passenger side door, and climbed in.

Dennis experienced something of a rush. God, it was good. Like the first sip of cold beer after six harrowing days of being trapped inside of a hotel linen closet. Except, instead of six harrowing days of being trapped inside of a hotel linen closet, it was countless, unending weeks of maddening apathy, and instead of a cold beer, it was the sheer exhilaration of winning Mac over.

He gave up on suppressing his beamy grin.

His foot felt heavy on the pedal. The engine labored away, the rumbling resembling the pumping in his chest. It was as if he’d secured some precious cargo, and he was ready to haul it absolutely anywhere.

He snatched a glance away from the road to look at him.

Mac had a habit of exaggerating his body language, since he was always too pussy-footed to talk openly about whatever the hell was bothering him. Today, he settled on some crossed arms and a gaze out the window to ensure that his face was unavailable.

Didn’t matter. Dennis always knew what was on his mind anyways. 

He’s so fucking annoying.

Religion is supposed to make you happy or content or some shit, yet all it’s ever done for Mac is make him miserable and desperate to be somebody he's not. So much of him gets soaked up by that goddamn Jesus sponge, and on top of that, he’s gotta hear him ramble about sin this, sin that, check out the physique on that guy, do you want a massage? Always beating around the bush, suppressing himself, watching his tongue, policing others. 

Not to mention he was just an irritating person to be around. Oh, Dennis, check out these shitty blueprints I drew up! It’s cool how we both have the same favorite girl scout cookie, huh? I think I can make that jump, watch this. He’d say that last one right before hopping over a puddle and acting like he’d cleared a gorge, or standing on a rooftop with him, swaying with the intoxication of a wreckless, care-free night between the two of them, and like, twelve beers. Multiple times, Dennis has had to physically stop him from jumping off a fucking building. Yeah. He has had to use brute force, locking him in a tight embrace so he doesn’t kill himself in a drunken act of total loonacy. The kid thinks he’s invincible after too many.

And when he wasn’t preaching or boasting, he was like a lovesick labrador, following Dennis around, hanging on his every word, shitting out praise for him when he had hardly done anything.

Which, you know, don’t get it wrong, Dennis loves.

If only Mac would cooperate if and when he wanted him to.

He really was kind of like a pet of sorts. Loyal and useful, fun-loving and cute. But on the other hand, in constant need of discipline and praise, positive reinforcement and careful attention. 

However, although he _was_ training him, in a way, Dennis admittedly knows that that’s a dangerous thought process. They are companions, yes, but Mac is not an animal—he does not think like one, and if Dennis were to be honest with himself, he really did wish they could be in on it together, so to speak. But the mantra goes—if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. After all, he was the graceful feline to Mac’s raging young mastiff, and certain things require flawless, detailed precision, so trusting him to understand the nuances required to convincingly pull this off was sadly out of the question. 

Better to just manipulate the fuck out of him, you know?

Mac said suddenly, “I need money for my projects.” To describe his tone as defensive would be an understatement.

“Okay?”

“I’m just saying—I never would’ve agreed to this if I wasn’t desperate.”

“Mm…” Dennis hummed, “Desperate, huh?”

He continued angrily, “But not so much that I’m okay with that shit you pulled back there, okay?” His voice broke on the last word.

Aw, _someone’s_ feelings were hurt.

Actually, uh, that proved to be a problem. 

Dennis sighed. “You’re right.” In his periphery, Mac pulled his gaze away from the window. “I recognize that I got carried away, I get that.” 

In times like these, he was thankful for his impeccable acting skills. He took on the role of a desperate, disheveled, gay man, deep in the closet. If you want, you can basically picture Mac, but cunning. See, it’s important for him to think that he isn’t alone in this whole, being attracted to your best friend and roommate of twenty years but never making a move because not only would that expose you as anything but straight but it could also shatter your only line of emotional support and send you into a drunken spiral of lonely despair for the rest of your life, thing. 

He pretended to tiptoe around his words, “And what happened back there… came from a deep impulse—I-I didn’t _think._ You have to understand me, here.”

“I don’t think I _want_ to understand.”

“Hey bro,” Dennis chuckled half-heartedly, “actually, that’s fine by me.” He switched his gaze between the speedometer and an approaching, perfectly placed stop sign, feigning hesitation. At the opportune moment, he admitted, “‘Cause I think I got somethin’ inside of me, that I just,” he paused, “can’t quite seem to explain.”

He slowed to a stop, and, with acute tenderness, made passionate eye contact with Mac, only to “nervously” shy away from it and step on the pedal. 

Oh yeah, the atmosphere was _real_ sexy, now. 

Mac clung childishly to a sulky scowl, which made it challenging for Dennis to contain a smirk to the left side of his face. The re-crossing of his arms really solidified the whole effect superbly. Unbeknownst to him, though, it was all in the eyes. Those soft and cherubic, helplessly expressive eyes. 

“Then don’t,” Mac said, quietly.

His fingers flared away from the wheel, “I won’t.”

Dennis could easily leave it there. They could chew on this tantalizing faux-confession of love for what was left of the short ride to the hardware store, rendered silent by the delicacy of their dance around the realm of romance. Really, they could do it forever. They’ve made it this far, right?

They were experts at saying everything without saying anything at all.

But he just _had_ to open his mouth again. “Not like you’d have a shot at understanding, anyhow.”

Mac fully faced him, now. “I’m not fucking _stupid,_ Dennis. I’ll have you know, _okay,_ that my emotional prowess has _depth.”_

He just couldn’t let his suffering go underappreciated, could he? He thinks that he gets it—that he’s suspended in that putrid fog too, just like Dennis is. Well, newsflash, for ya! Mac doesn’t have the capacity to get it.

Dennis acted impressed, forcing a cheery tone. _”Prowess?_ Hey, now that’s a ten dollar word, right there!”

He replied angrily, _“Thank_ you. But flattery’s only gonna get you so far. If we’re gonna do this, I have to know you respect me.” He added, “As a man.”

Astounding, really.

“Bro.” He lathered the sarcasm on a bit thicker, you know, so he might actually get the hint. “How could I _not_ respect you? You’re like, the strongest dude I know. They don’t call you the sheriff of Paddy’s for nothin’.”

“People are calling me that? Who?”

“You know!” Dennis blurted back, a bit manic, “People!”

Mac assessed the statement carefully, his expression that of intense concentration. He lowered his guard to accept the compliment. “I guess they're noticing all the extra mass I tacked on recently. I’ve been hitting the gym extra hard lately, see, in order to prep for my stunt.” 

Okay, so now Dennis was kind of having fun. His voice made a hairpin turn, now sounding polite and genuine, “Is that it? Come to think of it, I _thought_ those quads were especially poppin’ today.”

“Yeah?” In a primal display of asserting his manhood somehow, Mac aggressively rolled his shoulders forward. Dennis could even tell he was flexing, despite his eyes being pointed at the bumpy street. “Well, they should. I do _lunges_ now. Yeah. I swear, long gone are the days of focusing on my glamour muscles. Guess it’s just finally paying off.”

Mac doesn’t do fucking lunges.

Trying not to break character, Dennis said, “I’ll say,” as if it should’ve gone without saying.

“But _hey._ That reminds me. You _officially_ lost your thigh privileges.”

Dennis pulled his mouth to the side, facetiously clicking his tongue in disappointment. “Well for God’s sake, please tell me I can win them back.”

Their little improv sesh had led to some pretty weird territory, so it wasn’t surprising that Mac floundered a bit before settling on an answer. “No—only if I say… So yes. Eventually… Eventually you can touch the inside of my thigh, of _course._ That was never a _question,_ okay? It was never about whether or not there will be thigh touching, Dennis, because there’s gonna _be_ thigh touching. It’s about consent—I did not consent. I’d like you to get _consent_ from me, before,” he took a deep, shaky inhale, since he’d been talking a mile a minute, “before any weird touching shit, okay? I just, I need a heads up, okay?”

Perfect. Now, throw the pitch. 

Dennis’ brow furrowed. “You know what?” He passionately slammed a palm onto the top of the steering wheel. “You are absolutely right, Mac. This isn’t just some superficial pursuit of the flesh, and you are _definitely_ not just some whiny, thin-skinned skank I’m just tryin’ to nail. This is a professional operation run by two men. Better—two friends—better! Two blood brothers.” He glanced at him to let him know he was serious. “Look, at the end of the day, I need you by my side, and I can’t have that if I’m using and abusing you, now can I?”

Mac sighed sharply.

“No, I can’t. Which is why we’re in this together. We’re a _unit,_ goddammit! Formidable! Unable to be stopped!”

Mac’s gaze had returned to the window. “I guess.”

In the prospect of it all, Dennis utterly swept himself up. “You know, I just don’t think I give you enough credit. I just have this _feeling,_ that if we put our all into this, it’s gonna pay off—i-immensely. My intellect, your, uh, your different kind of intellect—your deep emotional _prowess,_ huh? We make a killer match-up, don’t you agree? Come on and think, when was the last time you and I really _teamed up?_ Huh? Now I’m talkin’, like hard, teamed up _hard?_ And I for one, I’m sick of us playing for different teams, Mac! You remember when we were the dynamic duo? Aw, whatever happened to that, man?! Maybe that’s what we _need,_ to actually execute a goddamned plan for once! Are you followin’ me here?!”

Mac wasn’t matching his excitement in the way that he wanted him to. He wasn’t saying anything, actually, and in the silence, Dennis realized that somewhere along the line, he’d dropped the act.

Opening his mouth to say anything, he was desperate to push past this unbearable feeling, but Mac spoke instead, sounding defeated. 

“I’m straight, Dennis.”

Well, that kind of came out of nowhere, didn’t it?

He at first didn’t recognize the knot in his gut.

It wasn’t like the statement was a surprising one. The words, they made sense. They complied with Mac’s nonsensical philosophy, and he’d heard them before, an insufferable amount of times. 

The pit was an insolent, bratty little enigma, wasn’t she?

“I really need you to know that.”

Dennis spat a chuckle before issuing the automated response. “What? I _know_ that. Everyone knows it, bud.”

Mac spat a chuckle, too. It was a cynical one, though, unlike Dennis’ feeble attempt at covering up his discomfort. “You know that I meant it when I said I wasn’t stupid, right?”

Dennis bit his top lip, “I—”

_”Bud, pal,_ like… how more obvious could you be?” 

This knot—it was so irately obnoxious, overstaying its welcome, as it does, and refusing to explain why it’s even visiting in the first place. Dennis wanted to cough it up like a hairball so he could be done with it forever. 

“What do you—”

“Oh, for fucks’ sake, Dennis, pick _one.”_ The acidity in his voice was shocking. “Are you playing dumb, or are you masterminding?”

“Okay—” Dennis momentarily filled the space with laughter so he could conjure up a response. “Where the hell’s _this_ coming from? Look, I’m not so sure about _you,_ but all I want is to get a fuckin’ win over here. Charlie just,” he bared his teeth, his jaw jutting out, _”Pisses_ me off, okay? And in my defense—you normally love it when when I tell you how straight you are.” 

__

__

Apparently that pushed a button, because Mac hollered, sounding completely fed up, “You’re straight too, you know!”

Dennis jammed his tongue into his cheek.

Okay. Alright.

That’s how he wants to play?

Cool and smug, rolling his eyes, he said, “Mac. I know. I practically _invented_ heterosexuality, m’kay?”

“Then act like it! Please! Fuck!”

Dennis sat on his next statement for a few seconds, assessing the possible repercussions. It didn’t matter, because he knew full well that he wasn’t ever not going to say, cruelly and harshly, “You weren’t this squirmish in the bathroom.”

At this, Mac essentially exploded. “I was conducting a thought experiment, dude! Ugh—like that is _so_ obvious! I only did what I did ‘cause I was _testing_ you! Like, how far is this guy willing to go, you know?!” 

He clearly had that excuse at the ready. “Yeah?! Well try _this_ on for size! Me too, pal!”

Mac’s back was stiff, his index finger jabbing the air between them as he shouted, “WHAT DID I JUST SAY, DENNIS?! _WHAT_ DID I SAY? DON’T PATRONIZE ME—DO NOT PATRONIZE ME YOU LITTLE BITCH!”

They were yelling over each other.

“Don’t you raise your voice at me! I WILL TURN THIS CAR AROUND!”

“I RAISE MY VOICE WHEN I FEEL LIKE RAISING IT! TURN IT AROUND, THEN! TURN IT AROUND! I DIDN’T ASK TO BE PICKED UP!”

“OH, IT’S AN EXPRESSION YOU PIECE OF SHIT, YOU’RE LUCKY I EVEN LET YOU STEP _FOOT_ IN MY RANGE ROVER!”

“‘Cause this car is so goddamn special, right?”

“It. Is a motherfucking… _transporter…_ of GODS AND YOU KNOW IT!”

“Oh, so I know things now! Tell me, oh wise one, _I’m_ in the car! Does that make _me,_ number one dumbass, a god too?!” 

“I never called you a dumbass, _dumbass.”_

“Well,” Mac spat, “You implied it.”

Dennis let out an obnoxiously long, loud, exasperated sigh.

Then the two of them sulked through the windshield for about a minute.

Then Dennis, albeit hesitant to concede, decided that rectification was in order. He didn’t know how it all got unraveled so quickly, but it sure did annoy the shit out of him. Unfortunately, now was the time for sincerity, or rather, the closest thing he knew to be sincerity.

He’s man enough to admit that there was a steep learning curve here. This wasn’t the first time Dennis fucked up today, but he really wanted it to be the last. 

Recalibration is key.

He drew a long breath and said curtly, “Okay, Mac, here’s the deal. The teaming up stuff—I meant that, that was real. That came from my core, that came from my soul. Okay—and I’m… sorry. For _patronizing_ you, or whatever. You’re not dumb. And uh, sorry for grabbing your thigh with, uh, without your _resounding approval_ —I regret it,” he held up a palm, _“despite_ how toned it felt.” In the same tone one might say, “Happy?” Dennis tacked on an, “Okay?”

Mac paused for a bit before responding quietly, “It’s fine.”

Great. 

Now that _that_ was out of the way, he could reset the course. 

Fake dating scheme, ho. Jesus fucking Christ.

“But…” Dennis let out a sigh, “and I don’t mean it lightly when I say it _truly_ pains me to say this…”

As he paused for dramatic effect, Mac continued to glare at him, saying sharply, “What?”

After another deep breath, Dennis revealed, “We need practice.”

“Yeah, for _what,_ dingus?”

He spelled it out to him, “Our act! The show—the—” he pushed past it, “we’ll use the shopping trip as a trial run. We need this to look real, and I can’t have you weaseling away from me all the t—”

“No.”

“There’s no way around it, Mac. If this comes off as forced it’ll—”

“We’re not doing that. Not in public.”

“Yes. We are.”

“No. We’re—”

Dennis called his bluff, “You want me to pull the plug on this? Is that what you want? Cause it sounds to me like that’s what you want. Look, no one said this was mandatory—I’m not the one strapped for cash, here.”

Mac can’t have it both ways. He wishes to be gently caressed by a formidable, attractive man such as Dennis, yet cowers in the closet like a dog on the Fourth of July. 

He allowed him to think and/or internally freak out and/or pray for almost a full minute, until he finally spat, “I take the lead.”

Dennis nodded. “Dominant. Assertive. I like it—that’s the _spirit!_ Push me around! Don’t let me walk all over you!”

Mac was silent for a couple seconds before he said hesitantly, “You are having a _weird_ morning, dude…”

“Mm!” Dennis purred, the vivacious vibration coming from somewhere deep in his chest. His eyes sprung wide as it coursed through him. “I _know,_ right?!” 

They pulled into the parking lot of the hardware store, which was smaller than a Lowe’s, but bigger than your average mom-and-pop shop. A lumber section, a garden section, a lighting section, all that good stuff. Being the gang’s go-to place for tools, duct tape, and melee weapons, they had to be on their best behavior, lest yet another unceremonious banning.

He figured that now was an opportune time for a quick briefing. Mac would take the lead, sure, but let’s just face facts, Dennis is never not truly in charge. After all, there were boxes to tick, moods to set, chemistry to be had, all unbeknownst to Mac. 

The Range Rover puttered near the entrance when he began, “Okay, so when we’re in there, we’re a couple, got that? But I better not see you letting it go to your head, ‘cause we all know how you can get with roleplay. There’s no need to freak out if you just remember—”

“Yep!” chirped Mac with high, frantic energy as he hastily unlocked his door, giving Dennis little time to stop before he was throwing it open. He quickly half-assed an explanation, “I think I saw a sale sign,” and clamored out onto the crosswalk.

“N—get back here! What—what _sale?!”_

He just told him, “Find a parking spot and catch up. I don’t want them to sell out.” He slammed the door shut and jogged into the store.

Dennis was left to stare after him out the passenger window, puzzled as hell.

He whipped his head to the windshield and let go of the break, his brow furrowing. “What _sale?”_

  
  


On the long, warm walk to the entrance, Dennis pondered Mac’s capricious nature.

There was a considerable amount of pushback that he hadn’t accounted for.

Mac was the bright white concrete beneath Dennis’ sneakers, his own life his poor eyeballs—in constant strain. It was like he was stuck in traffic. He knows which way to go, he knows he wants to speed down that highway as fast as he can until he reaches the destination, but cars, and people, and people in cars, Mac and his _feelings_ and closets and insecurities—it all gets in the goddamn way, and Bryan Adams can only soothe him so much.

It wasn’t as simple as cashing in on a crush, Dennis was coming to realize.

He asked himself, what _was_ the destination, anyway? 

A blast of cool air felt fresh on his skin as he stepped over the threshold, the automated doors making way.

That question was more suited for a long shower or some shit.

Just focus on the now, condense the plan, and take it step by step.

He scanned the area. Tall ceilings, a militia of half-dead cashiers manning the front lines, towering shelves of caulks and glues and paints. A considerable amount of people—milling, looking, moving their mouths at one another.

No Mac.

Shutting his eyes, Dennis took in a deep breath through his nostrils.

The boy’s got severe ADHD. God only knows which direction he could’ve gone. 

He swiveled his body abruptly, proceeding to yank a nearby cart away from its family.

Step one was already in the works—sell Mac to the idea that they were just two bros, doing their thang.

He headed left, to aisle number one, and began snaking the store in a consecutive manner—a superior plan to heading straight to the duct tape considering, well, Mac’s aforementioned mental illness. 

At least step two should be fun—shower him with gifts and adoration in order to win him back over. 

Aisle two was deserted.

Step three was the important one—convince him to go through with the stunt to prove to the gang that this was merely a cold, calculated plan to profitize Mac’s infatuation.

Dennis was halfway down aisle three when he realized how insufferably crowded it was. He approached a brigade of cart-wielding simpletons, taking up as much space as possible with all their fat, and their… general unpleasantness. A mom, a geriatric bag of bones, a whole-ass family, in fact, with a load-bearing fucking pillar smack dab in the middle of it all.

Finally was step four—avoid blowing your brains out in the process.

His hands curling tightly around the handle of his buggy, he approached the clusterfuck, his back poised, fully expecting them to take note of his intentions and clear a path. That is, until his cart’s bow met mom’s starboard. Yes, that’s correct—some people in _your_ society feel it’s perfectly acceptable to position a cart precisely perpendicular to the narrow path between shelves, inconsiderately blocking valuable aisle space.

Savages.

Rolling his shoulders back and raising his chin, he adorned the most scornful of looks in order to clearly convey his decree.

Move, bitch, get out the way.

They paid Dennis no mind. Mommy-fatass merely perused the wares, her child, sat in the cart, producing spit bubbles. Both were ignorant to their incivility. 

He lacked both time and patience. Mac was probably lost—maybe scared. Undoubtedly confused. 

He owed no explanation, no courtesies to these people, these loathsome strangers.

He decided to omit the middleman, which was hearty bellow, louder than the roar of a thousand lions.

He would cut straight to force. His cart was his battering ram. 

Zeroing in on his target, he wound up for launch by bowing his head like a bull and taking a few paces back, making sure to aim with precision.

He spared no time to bum rush her.

But after only one stride, Dennis was suddenly being assailed from behind, a strong, brutish hand locking onto his wrist and yanking him away.

He let out a sharp yelp before he saw that it was just Mac, having appeared from thin air.

Genuinely gobsmacked, Dennis found himself caught in a turbulent whirlwind.

As he was swiftly and violently whisked off, he caught a glimpse of his cart; it gently swayed off-course and bumped into the pillar, followed by Mommy snapping her head to it like a meerkat.

His view got knocked away when the corner-end of the aisle came smacking him in the back of the head, shoulder, and calf, all at once. Mac had just snatched his wrist and ran, cutting the corner and not caring to look back, inadvertently throwing Dennis right into the shelves, sending an array of heavy products clattering to the floor.

Bruising pain blaring from multiple sources, Dennis exclaimed, “Fuck, Mac!” 

“Oh, you probably deserved it,” he quipped back, quickly leading him to the neighboring aisle, home to a cart of his own, already half-full with duct tape. There had to have been at least forty of those little rolls in there, most of them the same shade of gray, save for a few that had flame motifs.

Mac released him to show them off, excitedly yammering about some deal that actually turned out to exist. Dennis wasn’t really paying attention to him.

He rubbed the pain on the back of his head, enamored by the fact that Mac was still able to surprise him after all these years.

Some words cut through. “You’re just lucky I know this store like the back of my hand, Dennis.” His hands were on his hips as he nagged with a smile, “Just sayin’, I don’t think you’d survive without me ‘cause I don’t even know how you get lost so fast.” With the context of their previous conversation, he said cheekily, “Hey _dumbass,_ duct tape’s aisle _four._ You know they have signs, right?”

Dennis wasn’t currently able to think properly, let alone correct him. His brow furrowed. “Yeah.”

“And just _what_ were you planning on using that cart for, exactly?” Mac asked like a reprimanding mother, “Y’know—aside from attacking innocent shoppers.”

“That cow is _far_ from innocent,” he huffed, still reeling, his eyes darting to the side. To think—just a moment ago, she was on the fiery path to punishment, and now—

_“What_ evs,” Mac replied, turning around to push the cart. “We got what we came for. Try not assaulting anyone on the way out, alright?”

But they had just got there.

The goal—it rang urgently through Dennis’ mind, opportunity fleeting, and he instinctively closed the gap between them, hastily throwing his left hand on the handle—directly on top of Mac’s.

Christ, he’s always so _warm._

Mac stopped and snapped his head to him, taken off guard, and yanked his hand out from under him to take a hesitant step away from the cart.

Wrong move, evidently.

That wasn’t smooth. That wasn’t romantic. That was sloppy, that was embarrassing, that was downright fucking horrid. 

Dennis was tanking, and Mac gaping at him like he was an escaped tiger at the zoo made recovering that much more of a challenge.

It’s just Mac, for God’s sake, he should be on his A-game.

He hadn’t had time to rehearse anything in his head. Thoughts ricocheted against his skull—it was clear that Mac was banking on a quick zip-in and zip-out, sans any of that dangerous coupley stuff. 

That’s right—he had to feel in control.

Swallowing his nerves, Dennis settled on a response. He whispered, winking on the third word, “The plan, _hon?”_

Everything about this was so unnatural, it hurt. Maybe he _was_ an escaped zoo animal.

Nonetheless, it registered. Dennis could tell because Mac’s face sank into that ever-familiar scowl of his.

A decent save, sure, but the chemistry was now completely fucked.

Taking a deep breath in for the both of them, Dennis stared at him with a new, determined look that said—we both need to relax. He meant it when he said they have a special connection. Without words, he reminded him that this was merely a plot, on which they’d both been briefed. It possessed a clear goal, a clear course of action, moving parts, steps, and strategies.

Like any other.

Mac lurched down to swipe up his hand. His grip was painfully secure, compressing Dennis’ fingers together into a little bundle.

Well, that’s what he gets for letting Mac make any sort of decision.

While using the same death grip on the handle, Mac narrowed his eyes at him, snarled, _“I_ lead,” and started walking.

Firmly planting his feet, Dennis had to use his free hand to quickly steady the cart before Mac’s awkward one-handed maneuvering sent it off-course.

He glanced behind him. The aisle was deserted besides the two of them. His fingers pulsated, compacted tightly by Mac’s assertive grasp.

Unbelievable.

He snapped, “Really? _This_ is how you think people hold hands, Mac?” Biting his bottom lip, he strained, Mac either being too stubborn or too dim-witted to loosen up, until his fingers popped free. He vigorously shook the blood back into them, unable to fight off a scowl. “See, this is exactly the kind of reason why this dry run is absolutely necessary.”

Clearly, he had to teach him how it was done. Both literally and figuratively, Dennis had to hold his hand through this entire process. If they wanted to go the light and breezy route—the we’re-just-a-happy-couple-running-some-errands route—there were plenty of options, none of which involved taking on the role of a fucking bench clamp.

He chose the playful and lighthearted approach, and with flawless execution, gingerly laced his fingers between Mac’s and curled them until they caressed his knuckles, all the while chattering absentmindedly, basically to himself, “It’s as if you’ve never done this before—are you really this inept? Really? My god—stop thinking so hard about it—no girl that has ever existed has been into that. I swear, like a goddamn _boa constrictor.”_

Mac’s fingers remained rigid, poking out of his gentle grip. 

Dennis watched him and waited.

Staring at mt. duct tape with wide eyes, he clung to his anger, breathed heavily through his nose, and thought deeply, his eyes flickering around the aisle as he tried to drum up a way to escape the situation. It dawned on Dennis that his little bench clamp stunt was a sabotage attempt, and that their dynamic was far more adversarial than what he’d envisioned.

After about seven or so seconds of what he could only assume was “deep, emotional processing” on Mac’s part, his jaw unclenched, popping to the side.

His time was up. Dennis cocked his head to get him to look at him. He did, his cheeks marvelously flushed, wearing his best poker face.

Dennis flattened his mouth into a line and flicked his eyebrows up expectantly.

What does this boy need, a treat?

Now Mac looked like he was trying to solve a math problem in his head. A loud and clear “Uh,” jumped out of him as his pupils made a quick trip to their hands and back. 

He barked, “Who taught _you_ to hold hands?” 

Swiftly and smoothly, he unlaced themselves with a flick of his wrist and regrabbed Dennis’ hand, the base of his four fingers resting over his palm, their tips folding around the bend. He huffed a shaky exhale and added sternly, “I’m not about to take romantic advice from a dude who does it like he’s still in middle school.”

Finally.

Then, something peculiar happened.

Dennis experienced the second rush of the day. And this one was different. 

If the first one was a cold beer, this one was crack—complete with abnormal heart palpitations.

He detected other breeches of similar fashion—goosebumps, butterflies, what-have-you. The works. It was painfully textbook how abruptly giddy his organs were.

Truthfully, he didn’t want to waste time wondering about it. He didn’t need to know. He just wanted to feel it.

The hardware store, the ambient stirring of its crowd, the distant beeping of its registers, the smell of lumber—suddenly it all felt so artificial, as if someone had built this—this _facade_ of a functioning establishment for the sole purpose of allowing Dennis and Mac to romp around in it.

It was the perfect plan, and the world submitted to it.

Reciprocation had come at last, and things were finally starting to resemble the way Dennis knew they always should have been since the beginning.

He blinked, his eyes fixed on the only other real person in the building.

The beginning, that is, being this morning, of course, when they signed onto this scheme.

Mac stared at his shoes, his anger retired.

It hit him. This is what it feels like to win. Of course.

Tension was on it’s way out.

Surrendering to a smile, Dennis was hyper-aware of every part of his body and every part of Mac’s body. 

Their hands were fucking linked, properly too, and it was astounding.

Held hostage by the novelty of it, he guessed, the two of them turned into statues of themselves, their feet cemented to the floor of the aisle. Even his eyes, stuck to Mac’s cheek, refused to budge. It wasn’t bad, actually. They could use a moment of mindfulness since their trip had lost focus—since Dennis had lost focus, fretting about parking spaces and carts and schemes and beers and chicks instead of what was going to further him and make him happy, instead of what was directly in front of him. A business partner, a confidant, a friend that he actually valued and wanted to keep close. 

Mac.

Dennis felt exhausted. 

Their eyes met, and his smile sank. An “Uh,” fell from his mouth.

Now, the two of them have locked eyes plenty of times in the past. 

But _this?_

Oh, this was despicable.

So to speak, Dennis was caught with his pants down, without makeup, naked, dirty, and skinless. He felt ill, like his stomach would eat itself.

The fucking _look_ in his eyes. Yearning, burning, passionate. Scared as hell. Like looking in goddamn mirror. A pathetic, sad little mirror.

Words escaped him.

Then, Mac’s eyes searched, desperately, their pupils frantically wavering behind Dennis’ shoulder.

“H-hey!” he panted, and without warning, uprooted the moment entirely by violently tugging him towards a shelf. Dennis’ knee banged painfully on the cart in the process. 

”Speaking of middle school!” He grabbed a pair of walkie-talkies and held them out in front of them. “Look, me ‘n Charlie used to have some of these!”

It was like Dennis had been tossed into the bathtub by a bratty toddler. The dropping of Charlie’s name made his stomach turn.

Shit, what?

His metaphorical fur dripping wet, his back legs quivering, Dennis blinked, regarded the walkies for half a second, and as calmly as he could manage, started, “Well that’s st—” before he remembered step two, “I-interesting. Ye—n—wow.”

Mac was staring at them with laser focus, probably to avoid eye contact, which was a good thing since it allowed Dennis a moment to cringe at himself, briefly filling his cheeks with air and clamping his eyes shut.

He glanced down. Their hands—still linked, still baffling. 

Mac’s hands were bigger and stronger than his, he’d demonstrated that earlier when he’d manhandled him, snatching the controls, no questions asked. But they held onto him so gently now, almost like he was afraid to push things too far. Or maybe that’s just how Mac was—a hot-headed, gentle giant. 

He found himself studying his facial features, trying to memorize the fullness of his cheeks the exact shade of pink on his lips. The hours spent looking at him must be creeping into the thousands now, but it was like he was laying eyes on him for the very first time. 

He was impeccable. It took his breath away. 

“Did I ever tell you how we’d use them to make money?”

He sounded so eager and hopeful, slathering that bright-eyed and bushy-tailed enthusiasm right over blatant fear. The corners of his mouth perked up as he bravely looked him in the eye. In an alternate universe, Mac knew what kind of havoc that wreaked, and he was plucking at Dennis’ heartstrings with the confidence and technique of a concert violinist. In this one, he was the monkey who wrote Hamlet by banging his ass on a typewriter. 

It really wasn’t fair. 

“If you have, I don’t remember.”

Mac beamed at him, eyes gleaming, as he plunged into an anecdote, “So. We’d go to the mall. I’d spy on people shopping while Charlie set up shop somewhere close. They’d leave with their purchase—I’d radio over and tell him what they got. Then he’d make bets with them—like, ‘hello ma’am, I bet you ten dollars I can guess what’s in your bag,’ see? It was kinda like a fortune-telling-magician typa scam.”

Dennis sniffed. “Stupid.”

“Hey—we made the most out of our situation, _dickhole._ We were too young to get jobs there—”

“Your first job was drug dealing, Mac.”

“Can you focus? I’m telling a story.” Dennis caught himself smirking as he went on, lost in the memory. “It worked out pretty _well,_ for your information, until it started going to his head—he bought a _cape_ with the money, stood on a literal soapbox, and started spouting off about people’s dead relatives.”

Dennis chuckled, and so did Mac.

“It got out of hand when he told this one lady that her late husband had faked his death and ran off his secretary, so naturally she started whacking him with an umbrella.”

“An umbrella,” he repeated flatly, as he tried not to think about how sweaty his hand was getting.

“One with a pointy end—so it was a stabbing more than anything, really.”

Accusatively, he asked him, “And where were you while this transpired?”

Mac shrugged. “I dunno, Cinnabon?”

That got a laugh out of Dennis. “Did you guys ever think to just feign homelessness?”

His lips pursed and his pupils floated up.

Dennis explained, “Y’know, invest in some fingerless gloves—I’m positive Charlie already looked the part—find some cardboard and write a heart-wrenching little quip about being hungry and cold on it. I’m telling you, nobody with a soul can walk past a pair of poor vagrant children without shelling out at least a little bit of change.”

Mac thought about it for the briefest moment. “Well it wasn’t a panhandling scam it was a medium scam—” he cut himself off to snap, “You know what? Where were _you_ back then, huh?” He put the walkies back on the shelf.

Dennis plucked them back off and tossed them on top of their pile.

“What are you doing?” Mac asked.

“You want them, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but I only got all that tape ‘cause it was on sale.”

Flashing him a coy smile, like they were sharing a private joke, Dennis leaned close and sang, “Ev-ra-thin’s on sale when you got a platinum credit card, bitch!”

He got to watch the excitement bud on his face as his eyes lit up. He blurted, “You stole Frank’s card?”

(For the sake of accuracy, let it be known that, in fact, the card that Dennis hung onto was one that Frank didn’t even know he had, but he certainly didn’t see a need to correct him.)

Dennis beamed back and squeezed his hand while exclaiming, “I stole Frank’s card, bay-bay!”

A passerby at the end of the aisle stopped in his tracks to gape at the two of them.

They hardly noticed him. Mac just flicked his eyebrows at Dennis, biting his bottom lip, and without warning, sprinted a short distance to snatch something else off the shelf, yanking his arm along with him. He was lucky it wasn’t dislocated.

“Can we get _this?!”_ he asked loudly, holding up a plunger.

“Ohmygod,” Dennis muttered, then said clearly, “Yes, Mac, sure, whatever you want—you realize we’re not glued together, right?”

Pursing his lips, Mac brought Dennis’ hand up to about chin level to inspect it while holding the plunger upright in his other hand, so it looked like he was comparing them, almost.

It became clear that it was a mistake, bringing his attention back to the fact that they were flat-out holding hands in public. 

And just by the way, why is that such a big deal? Holding hands? Everybody’s got two of them, and they were specifically designed to hold things! It shouldn’t be as scandalous as it is and it shouldn’t be making Dennis’ heart skip a beat every time he remembers it. Why did the circumstances have to be so specific for this to happen, anyway? They’ve known each other forever and from a purely physical standpoint, it felt great. Until he decided to point it out like a moron, that is.

It’s not like he particularly wanted him to let go. 

Mac raised a coy eyebrow, “What if we _were,_ though?”

“What?”

“I don’t know! Let’s make it into a game or something. That would make way more sense than like…” 

Mac trailed off, his arms going limp, dropping their hands back to their sides. His thumb rubbed the side of Dennis’ hand, boldly, casually, simply needing to fidget with something as he thought. 

As if to brace himself, he took a deep breath. “Why are we doing this, again?” The question cut a bit deeper than the situation at hand, and they both knew it.

It was clear that he didn’t actually want the real answer, though, which was good, since Dennis didn’t want to give it. 

“The same reason Charlie took a beating at Cinnabon.”

“Well, technically I was the one at Cinnabon.”

Dennis stared at him.

“Sorry, go on.”

“We live off the thrill of the scam, Mac.” 

Mac tossed the plunger on top of the pile so they could assume their position behind the handle. It was kind of like a three legged race, except not at all. Dennis was responsible for the force on the left, Mac for the one on the right, their hands meeting in the middle. 

Intent on beating certain feelings into submission until they rightfully wailed for their mommies, Dennis wielded a sturdy rod, and lo, in the words of a famous American poet, the butterflies fly away. They always do.

Recontextualization is key. 

Dennis made a decision.

They weren’t butterflies, iridescent and fluttering gracefully. They were the pitiful stragglers of a lost, invasive species of moth. A disgusting, brown, dirty type of moth that spends its whole life flopping into the warmth before flying directly into your soup and killing itself. 

It was wholly unnecessary, wholly stupid as fuck. 

Dennis continued to explain, “I’m absolutely thrilled to hold your hand, Mac, and I’ll tell you why.” He eased up on his side so they could turn a corner, into the lighting section. “All these people,” he gazed at the sparse, stirring crowd underneath a canopy of crystal chandeliers, “are not in on this. They aren’t clued in—but we are.”

Requesting a stop, Mac lightly tugged him. Dennis let go of his hand so he could cross the aisle to pick out yet another lamp for the apartment. It fell away slowly and hesitantly. 

It’s alright, Dennis had another move in the queue.

“Making a fool of somebody, for whatever reason, gives my soul a hard-on like you just wouldn’t imagine.”

Mac had surrendered, just letting his words wash over him now. Facing a wall of glowing orbs and shining chains, he pondered the lamps, (lava, rock, and table varieties). His fingers twitched.

His eyes fixed on his wide shoulders, Dennis took a silent step towards him so that their bodies were inches apart. 

The warm light swallowed them up.

As it turns out, it was a pathetically short tunnel, and the waters really were as welcoming as he’d imagined they’d be.

Gingerly placing four fingertips on each of Mac’s hips, Dennis drifted to his side and slid into place like a puzzle piece. He dropped an arm and reinforced the other one, pulling Mac’s hard, hot slab of a physical form close to his own. 

He whispered his poetry to him, “When I get to touch you, bro, butterflies swarm.”

“Dude,” was all he had to say in response. His Mac expertise came in handy; he knew what it meant. He had so many thoughts, and no time to organize them. He was floating.

“And I think it’s because, I…” 

Dennis threw his head back to the glistening halo of twinkling fixtures and light bulbs.

“Have a deep, unwavering love for…”

He looked at Mac.

“This scam.”

His lips wiggled, suppressing a big smile the best they could. “God,” he breathed, peering into his eyes, like he just couldn’t believe it, “Yeah. You know what, me too, man.”

Playing it off like it were a maniacal one, Dennis gave a chuckle. “Look at us. We’re a couple. Dennis and Mac are an _item.”_

Mac’s eyes glazed over, gazing way beyond the lamps.

Dennis wanted to give him everything he could. The closer they could come to the real thing, the better.

He rocked his hips, playfully bumping him, “Ain’t that craaaazy?” He laughed. 

Touching his eyebrow, Mac laughed awkwardly, “Yeah.”

He brought his lips close to his ear and sang softly, “And everyone is none the wiser…”

He emitted a tiny gasp, his eyes widening, “Including Jesus.”

Dennis affectionately echoed the tiny gasp, his mouth splitting into a wide grin, “Including Jesus!”

Loopholes, man.

They stood there, close, for about thirty seconds, feeling like winners.

Mac asked softly, referring to a topaz-colored rock lamp, “Can we get this?” 

“Whatever you want, baby.”

Just a pinch of tenderness and authenticity was all it took. Dennis had learned his lesson in the car. Be real with him, even just a little bit, and he melts. 

They made their way around the store, linking and unlinking their hands, giving each other goo-goo eyes, and making each other laugh. Mac even patted his ass once like he used to years ago. By the time they made it to the lumber section, their cart was stacked full of objects ranging from useless to almost useless. 

Mac crooned once his eyes hit a neat, freshly cut stack of expensive mahogany wood, “Woah, Dennis, look how pretty this is!”

He swiped his fingers over the cherry-brown finish. Dennis’ hand inched slowly across the smooth, cold surface too, until it found Mac’s. They came together so naturally now, without words, without fuss. 

It was scary, but a good type of scary, like going on a slingshot ride, how easily they fell into place now.

_”You’re_ pretty,” Dennis cooed.

“Shut up…”

“Almost as much as _me,_ I think.”

“No lie?”

“Straight up.”

Just standing there, Mac blushed like a big, dumb, idiot.

It really was as easy as that.

He let go of him to heave a big stack of wood from the stack.

Dennis stuttered, “N—why—we don’t need wood, babe.”

He said angrily, “You _said._ I could get _whatever_ I want. Am I remembering it wrong, or is that what you said?”

Dennis’ eyebrow twitched. “I did… say that.”

“Kay. Help me grab some—you think we need one of those rolly-cart thingies? Eh, you know what, I’ll just carry it fireman style—”

“Dude. What are you even gonna use it for?” Dennis asked, idly watching him struggle to lift a definitely too-heavy stack. He managed to set it on the ground without making it too obvious that that wasn’t his first plan.

Grunting with effort, he lifted one side of it. “Bro, lay off, I haven’t planned that far ahead yet.” His hand slipped, sending the stack clacking to the floor. He played it off like it was on purpose, shooting upright and sticking his hands on his hips to stretch his back dramatically. He had an idea. “Ooh! How about a doghouse?”

Judgemental as hell, Dennis pointed out, “We do not own a dog, Mac.”

He waved the prospect around like a ribbon toy, “We _could.”_

“I am telling you right now, it would be dead within a week.”

“Well yeah, maybe if I left _you_ alone with it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I can build something else.”

“No, you literally can’t. You don’t know the first thing about shopping wood.”

“Yes I do. For example, the more expensive it is, the better the quality. Duh.”

“Dumbass, not shopping _for_ wood.”

“There’s tutorials for everything on YouTube nowadays, Dennis.”

After realizing he was barking up the wrong mahogany tree, he got a bit snarky. “Okay, dear.”

Dennis abruptly bent over to pick up one side of the stack, and made eye contact with Mac. His face lit up. “Yes!” 

Through teamwork, they placed a sizable pile of wood onto a wheelie pallet thingy, and checked out. The total came to around $667, so Dennis picked out some candy for Mac (pop rocks, his obnoxious favorite), so it would read $669. Nice. 

They rode the wave they were on all the way to the bar. All that gay stuff desperately needed to be counter-balanced, so they got their hetero on by taking a few cherry-brown two-by-fours to some innocent parking meters and car mirrors as they whizzed past them in the Range Rover. 

Whooping and laughing the whole way, they remembered what it was like to have a blood brother. 

The pop rocks were annoying, borderline disgusting.

But he didn’t think the same of his passenger throwing them back like a beer and tapping the end of the wrapper to make sure he got every bit.

When they puttered to a stop outside Paddy’s, Dennis’ stomach dropped.

He’d completely spaced the stunt.

And he was due for parading him around like a show pig, now.

Mac unbuckled his seatbelt, smiling for no damn reason.

Dennis’ guts were twisting around like a revolting pile of worms.

His hand was on the handle.

Dennis blurted, “You wanna go back to Dee’s?”

“Hm?” he pouted, taking his hand off the handle.

“Y-yeah, y’know, just,” his eyes flashed through the windshield and back to him, “I thought we could get a head start on that thing you wanna build so damn bad.”

Helping him put together a shelf or something in order to placate him didn’t seem _too_ terribly torturous.

“Well I’m not sure what it is _quite_ yet, but I do have some pretty detailed blueprints in my head already.”

He suppressed a wince.

Mac added, “But you’re right, it’s gonna take a while probably. I wanted to show off all our new shit to Charlie and Frank… but…”

Dennis had trouble wiping the eagerness off his own face.

“Head start. Good idea.” 

Smiling with his teeth, Mac considered him for a moment. 

“I swear, sometimes I think you’re like my other half, dude.”

His words echoed a few times over.

Dennis beamed back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hungry 4 comments  
> will update sporadically (might be a while this time oopsie)  
> shoot me an ask at bastardmanvibes.tumblr.com


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